Sherlock in wonderland
by codename.penguin
Summary: Sherlock takes a hard knock to the head. Hurt Sherlock, protective John.
1. Chapter 1

**Anote:** Set after A scandal in Bohemia

 **Chapter 1**

 _He fell. I took him to Bart's_ \- JW

An innocuous text message on the face of things, but Mycroft was startled because he didn't receive text messages from the doctor. Not once in their almost two years of acquaintance.

 _Please come- JW_

By the time the second message had rolled around, the older man was already out his office at a dead run.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

'It must have been a hard fall,' Mycroft murmured down to John, as the doctor sat there staring vacantly into space.

The older man was puzzled by the ex-army captain's odd behaviour as through the glass observation window, he could spy his brother chatting quietly with the radiologist. There was not a bandage or bruise in sight, and Sherlock was now climbing to his feet completely unassisted.

'Thank you for the message,' Mycroft continued in a quizzical tone.

These words seemed to finally rouse John completely from his distracted state.

'He fell about one storey, but his head took a good knock against the concrete.'

'Hence the CT scan,' Mycroft deduced, gesturing with his ever present umbrella.

John nodded and then sucked in a fortifying breath, 'I don't know how to say this, so I will just say it. Sherlock, doesn't know who he is.'

'What?'

'He doesn't know who he is, nor does he remember me, and I am sure when you say hello, he's not going to have a clue who you are, either.'

It took a moment or two, but now Mycroft understood why John was the way he was, when he first came across him in the x-ray waiting room.

'I think I need to sit,' he muttered as he sank heavily into one of the white utilitarian plastic chairs, next to John.

Eventually, the two men turned around to study Sherlock through the glass window.

'Is this condition... permanent?' Mycroft asked weakly, whereas John shook his head reassuringly.

'I think it's just a matter of when.'

'And is this radiologist a specialist?' Mycroft added suddenly, his need to get ahead of this unexpected crisis coming to the forefront.

John scowled at him,'Sherlock is in no fit condition to fly or travel far distances, so get that idea out of your head. Let's just see what the report says.'

'I don't think you understand...'

'...that Sherlock is vulnerable now,' John hissed angrily rising to his feet, 'That one of his many enemies might see this as the _perfect_ opportunity to do away with him. You don't think I understand the danger he is in?!'

Mycroft too had risen to his feet, 'If you understand the danger, then you should understand that if there is anyway to reverse this, any procedure or drug, we should use it.'

'He just needs rest, and he needs us to watch his six!' John shouted in disbelief, 'he doesn't _need_ drugs. Christ, why did I even call you?!'

'John?'

The two combatants turned at this gentle query to find Sherlock standing in the doorway.

'Are you alright?' he asked, giving Mycroft a hard stare, 'is this man troubling you?'

Mycroft just stood there dumbfounded, as his brother's eyes washed over him with no hint of recognition in their blue depths.

In the meantime, John made a shooing gesture with his hands, 'Go, put your shoes on. This ground must be freezing! It's alright.'

But Sherlock didn't obey, not wanting to leave the man who had found him lying dazed in the street and emphatically reassured him that he was a friend. In the end, John had to walk back in the room and tow Sherlock to the chair that held his clothing while he was being scanned.

Slowly, the consulting detective re-dressed as John passed him his clothing. First his socks, then his pants, and then his shirt. In the meantime, Sherlock surreptitiously passed his hands over the rich material noting its fine quality, before glancing sideways at John who was dressed more simply in department store brands.

Finally, John shook out the fashionable Belfast coat and held it up for his friend.

Sherlock gave him an odd look. 'I don't actually wear that, do I?'

John glanced at the coat automatically as if checking to see what was wrong.

'Yeah, you do,' he eventually said with a confused frown. 'Why do you ask?'

Sherlock gestured with his long fingers, 'It's a bit much, don't you think? Everyone must stare.'

'Well, you look good in it,' John insisted with small grin, as some of the heavy weight that had settled on his chest since Sherlock's fall lightened. He turned Sherlock around, 'and it makes you look taller.'

Sherlock grunted noncommittally in agreement as he fastened the beautiful buttons, but he absolutely refused the scarf, choosing to instead stuff it into one of the coat's voluminous pockets.

They all gathered around the radiologist as he beckoned them to follow him to the nearest light box.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3** -

'Let me get this straight,' the detective snarled to the radiologist as he massaged the bridge of his nose, 'my brain is swollen and I cannot remember my name, and you say I have nothing to worry about. Just which university did you say you got your degree from?'

John quietly hushed his friend, grabbing his wrist absentmindedly and giving it a hard squeeze to let him know his words were not good, as he was wont to do when Sherlock was on the verge of precipitating a social catastrophe. Sherlock stared down in surprise at this invasion of his personal space, and was about to comment when the stranger John was fighting with earlier, pitched in.

'Your name,' the older man said slowly, 'is William Sherlock Scott Holmes.'

'But you like to just go by Sherlock,' his short companion interjected into the tense silence, as the consulting detective glared suspiciously at Mycroft.

'I should hope so,' Sherlock sniffed, 'I have never heard a name more upper Cambridge posh in my life.'

'Actually, you did not attend Cambridge,' the disconcerting stranger again supplied, leaning gracefully on his umbrella.

Sherlock skewed him with a piercing look, 'Quite the drama queen, aren't you? Why don't you just introduce yourself, as you are so dying to do.'

'Girls, let's not do this infront of strangers, okay?' John warned them sternly in an undertone, 'This is Mycroft. Do you know him at all?'

'Should I?'

'You're related.'

'Are you sure?'

'He's your brother, Sherl.'

Sherlock started in surprise and leaned in closer, as if trying to trace a resemblance. After a long moment, he snorted so derisively that John felt himself blush on Mycroft's behalf.

Mycroft just sighed quietly and looked heavenwards, as if praying for patience.

The radiologist took the opportunity to jump back into the discussion.

'If in a few days when the swelling goes down and you are still like this, then we will worry,' he explained further, 'head injuries are always a tricky matter to diagnosis. Try not to worry, you are in good hands with Dr. Watson.'

'You're a medical doctor?! Sherlock asked John in some surprise, 'why am I best friends with a doctor? Am I a doctor too?'

Mycroft held up a hand to interrupt this turn in conversation before it spiraled away from the issue before them, 'is there any procedure or drug to correct the brain swelling?'

John of course rolled his eyes at the question, while the radiologist gave Mycroft a flabbergasted look, as if he didn't hear him properly.

'Sherlock is conscious, his reflexes are good, his speech and vision unimpaired,' the doctor stated a little tersely now, 'I will not be recommending any unnecessary procedures, especially as regards the brain. You don't know how lucky Sherlock is! Your brother should take the opportunity to get some rest.'

'Life isn't always so simple for some people,' Mycroft pressed relentlessly, so used to being blamed as the heartless one that it barely registered. He knew why he was doing this. It wasn't safe for Sherlock to be wandering around London, without a clue of his existence. In fact, he was a danger to himself and to everyone in the nearby vicinity. 'I will take him to my home, now.'

'I live with you?!' Sherlock declared disappointingly before hastily turning to John, 'don't you have a place? I can kip on a chair, I don't mind.'

John raised an eyebrow at Mycroft, wondering where he was going with this. 'Sherlock, you and I live together in Baker Street. I ...I suppose it's your choice, where you want to do your resting.'

Seeing as how the young man didn't make any move to walk over to his brother's side, the decision appeared to have been made.

Just then a heavy gallop made them turn around, and additional cavalry rode in so to speak.

'John!' Lestrade cried out as he hurried forward, 'I came as soon as I read your message. Is it true?'

The Yard detective turned to Sherlock with a look of incredulity, 'are you in any pain?'

John leaned in to whisper, 'he's a friend, Sherl.'

The other man held out his hand politely, 'Hello, I am called Sherlock Holmes. How do you do?'

'Blimey,' was all the poor Inspector could manage to choke out.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sherlock stared through the car window as busy London rolled by. It was weird how he could rattle off all the names of buildings and streets, but yet he couldn't recall where he lived. Absently, he opened his wallet and looked at his identification card again. Here was tangible proof about all that was said about him in the last hour, and he clutched it fiercely in the palm of his hand. Was it strange that a bit of square plastic could bring such comfort?

With a soft sigh, Sherlock turned his head back to join the gentle hum of conversation around him. John had opted to keep him company in the back seat, while Lestrade drove.

There was a part of him that wondered at these men who were his friends, but he felt the truth of it even without them saying so. He could sense it by the warmth in their touch, by the concern in their faces when they looked at him, and by the way they herded him with their bodies, as they walked through the crowded hospital. It was a different feeling entirely when he had laid eyes on the person who was his brother. His brother was concerned and worried yes, but it was different. He just hadn't decided if it was a good different, or bad different. For the time being, he was relieved that Mycroft was giving him some leeway as he didn't stop him from leaving.

Since John and Lestrade didn't seem to mind that he wasn't participating in their conversation, Sherlock continued looking about with an air of curiosity. Discreetly, he ran his fingers over the worn but comfortable seats of the Inspector's car. The vehicle rattled a bit alarmingly every few minutes showing its age, but it was still perfectly serviceable. A bit like his two companions, he decided as he viewed their lined but cheerful faces.

Again, the detective stared at John's cotton chequered shirt peeking out of his jacket, and then down at his own stylish clothes. In contrast to his mates, everything about his attire screamed rich and sophisticated. He even had product in his hair, for God's sake!

Why was he so different?

'Am I addicted to fashion?' he asked John in a serious voice.

Lestrade roared with evil laughter from the front, much to the doctor's displeasure.

'You like nice clothes,' the doctor replied kindly, after giving the Inspector's seat a hard kick. 'there's nothing wrong with that. Ignore Greg.'

 _Greg. I have to remember that name._

'And why is my hair so long?' the young man then complained, pulling a strand infront his face, where it bobbed and weaved merrily when he let it ago, 'with my facial bone structure, this style makes me look like a woman. Can I cut it?'

'I know a good barber,' Lestrade said turning around, his eyes alight with massive amounts of mischief.

'Just drive, Greg' John said sternly, 'and you are not getting your hair cut, Sherlock! You could wake up tomorrow as you, and then you will scold me like a fury for not stopping you from changing your appearance.'

Sherlock frowned, displeased that he wasn't getting his way.

'You are very bossy,' he sniffed, pointing his aristocratic nose petulantly in the air.

The irony of this complaint set Lestrade off again but this time he was prepared, and he was able to muffle his laughter in his sleeve. 'Sherlock, if you are up to it, I have some questions.'

'Go ahead,' he replied unsurely.

'When you were running on the roof of that bakery, do you remember..?'

'...wait, I was running on a roof?' Sherlock interjected anxiously, not sure if had heard alright.

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Why what?'

'Why was I running on the roof of a bakery?'

'Well,' Lestrade reflected thoughtfully, 'it's sort of your thing.'

Sherlock shook his head in dismay. He was best friends with a surgeon and a police inspector, and he liked to run on rooftops, which was not only odd but dangerous. He didn't know what to make of his life at all.

John touched him on his arm to bring him out of his confused thoughts, 'did you remember something?'

'No,' he replied, 'but should we be worried that a heavily tinted black car has been following us for the last three blocks?'

'Damn,' Lestrade breathed in admiration as he checked the mirror, 'nice catch, Sherlock. Didn't see that.'

John looked once over his shoulder, 'Don't worry, we know that car. It is for your protection.'

'Do I need protecting?'

'Normally, no,' the doctor said soberly, 'but one of us is going to be with you at all times until you are recovered. You must _not_ leave our side.''

Sherlock pulled back in surprise, narrowing his eyes calculating as John's voice rang out commandingly in the car's interior. He was beginning to get the distinct impression that John was not as simple and mild mannered as he first appeared.

 _How very delightful! Why is that delightful?_

'So...should we swing by the bakery to see if we can't jog a memory?' Greg cut in hopefully in a small voice, balancing his concern for Sherlock's health, with his desperate need to catch a break in the new case they were involved in.

John sighed quietly. Five minutes ago they had passed the gymnasium/pool where they had their eventful encounter with Moriarty. Sherlock didn't so much as turn his head. If that location didn't dislodge a memory, nothing would.

'Just take us to Baker street,' he said softly, 'I want him to get some rest.'

* * *

 **Anote** : I only have time for very short stories but I do so like spending time with Sherlock and the gang, and all of you on fanfiction. I enjoy writing and sharing my stories with you nice folks. Thanks and have a great week.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

'We _live_ like this?'

John looked back over his shoulder at where Sherlock stood in the doorway of their flat, with a wary expression plastered on his face.

'Ummmm...' the doctor glanced around sheepishly at the general disorder and hurried to shut off the television that they had left on, and to throw a few dish towels over Sherlock's more exotic looking experiments in the kitchen.

'Work has been keeping us busy,' John assured him, beckoning the man to come inside and make himself at home. Cautiously Sherlock walked in and closed the door behind him.

'Does anything look familiar?'

The consulting detective did a slow twirl, but was forced to shake his head with a grimace, 'nothing, I'm afraid.'

John looked around for inspiration.

'Here, try this chair,' he suggested, gesturing excitedly towards a cushy armchair by an unlit fireplace. Sherlock didn't think this was going to work, but he obediently came forward; murmuring a soft thank you as John fluffed up a Union Jack decorated cushion and inserted it behind his back.

The detective smiled regretfully, as John stepped back with an expectant expression. 'It _is_ a comfortable chair.'

Temporarily accepting defeat John returned the smile, removing his jacket and flopping into the chair opposite to stare at the ceiling, 'Yeah, it's your favourite chair. Never mind that, let's take a break.'

The two men fell into a comfortable silence, and Sherlock busied himself by looking around him.

He was quite surprised by the size of the flat in such a busy part of central London. They were lucky to have acquired it, but it was a shame that it was covered in so much junk. Suddenly, his eyes collided with a creamy bleached skull above the fireplace. Horrified, he sat there transfixed as the empty eye sockets stared back at him in such a belligerent way that it took him a few seconds to recall that John was a medical doctor. Surely the man could keep the item in his room, as it was hardly appropriate for the mantel of all places. What would a visitor to their flat say?!

Eventually, Sherlock averted his eyes to escape its relentless staring, and his gaze fell on the other man in the room.

John.

His friend.

His best friend, in fact.

A friend who apparently was both his flat mate as well as his work colleague.

 _We must like each other very much, for us to be together all the time._

'This must be distressing for you,' Sherlock said slowly, not sure what he was trying to say,'for you to see me like this. Can I get you something from the kitchen? Something hot to drink?'

John turned to look across at him as though he had grown a second head.

'No, that's alright,' the doctor said weakly as he stood, reaching out one hand to take Sherlock's coat, 'I'll put the kettle on. We should talk.'

The small man hung up Sherlock's Belfast before heading into the untidy kitchen, where he efficiently searched for clean mugs and got out the tea bags. However, when Sherlock finally had a hot cup of tea warming his hands, a sudden flash of insight seemed to come to him, and he glanced at the back of John's head in horror.

 _We are a couple!_

Sherlock was so rattled by this revelation that he had to put his cup down on the coffee table, before he dropped it. John turned his head around at the soft thud, 'Drink it, Sherl and I want you to eat something a bit later. Don't fight me on this.'

'Do we fight often?' he asked anxiously.

John frowned in confusion at the odd question as he resumed his seat, 'Some days more than others.'

The doctor sipped at his tea with obvious relish, unaware of the utter panic that was stampeding through the chest of his flat mate.

'How long have we been living together?!'

'About 18 months,' John answered immediately. 'What's wrong? Why are you making that face?'

 _18 months!_

Sherlock looked aghast, confused and surprised by this information. What should he say? Should he say anything? He didn't want to upset the other man who had been nothing but decent and kind to him.

'Sherlock?'

'John, I hope this doesn't distress you, but I don't remember you at all,' he eventually said in a hesitant manner, 'I don't remember us as friends and as ...more than friends.'

Tea sprayed gustily in all directions as John swallowed the wrong way, and patiently Sherlock waited until the man's coughing subsided.

'We're just friends, Sherlock!' John spluttered feebly. 'Nothing more.'

Astonished anew Sherlock groped for the elusive memory fragment that had now frustratingly vanished. 'I thought I remembered something. I apologise.'

'Wait, I know what this is about and I can't believe it! Of all the things in the world for you to remember!' John cried in exasperation, waving his arms around to express his agitation. 'When we first started to work together, it was a bit of a running gag where everyone thought we were dating.'

Sherlock frowned, 'everyone thought that? Why?'

The other man sighed and sat back into his chair as he considered how to answer that.

'It used to piss me off in the beginning, I can tell you!' John admitted with a snort of annoyance, 'it still does sometimes. You had the right approach which was to ignore it entirely. You see, I've been through some bad stuff and I haven't let anyone get close to me in a long time, and neither have you. The anomaly was enough to peak everyone's interest; made me wish sometimes that I could take an extended vacation from reality.'

'What are you saying?!' Sherlock asked, his voice pitching up higher than normal, 'my presence embarrasses you?'

Startled, John stared at him in a shocked manner, as though the idea that his behaviour in this matter had affected Sherlock at some level, had never occurred to him.

'No, Sherlock,' he said in a low voice as he leaned forward, 'Don't ever think that, no matter what I say or do. I wouldn't give you up, not for anything.'

Sherlock could feel a big grin of relief slowly creep over his face. He many not have a clue of who he was, but it was clear that he was loved and well regarded by at least one person in this world.

'Is this okay, Sherlock?' John pressed as the man said nothing.

'It's fine. You said in the car that I saved your life,' Sherlock reminded him eagerly, sensing something exciting here. 'Can you finish that story? How did that happen? Did someone try to rob you?'

'No, nothing like that,' John said with a grin, as he picked up the remnants of his tea, 'there was this one time when in a case of mistaken identity, the Triad had kidnapped my girl and I, and she was about to be skewed by a spear, and you walked out of nowhere. That would be on the list of top ten saves.'

Sherlock stared in silence for a long moment, stunned by the man's flippant tone, 'What kind of doctor did you say you are exactly?'

John snorted with laughter and winked at him from over the edge of his mug as if to say, you haven't heard anything yet!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Now, although Sherlock didn't remember who he was, some of his personality traits were still very in much in evidence. These included his sharp mind, laser like focus and a great heaping of stubbornness. All very good traits of course when you are trying to solve a murder against the clock. Not so good when you want your flatmate to pause, and take a rest. However, John was able to use one of their adventures to his advantage like a carrot, as he lured Sherlock all around the flat and before you knew it, he had managed to get the other man to comb his hair, brush his teeth and take a shower, with very little fuss. Finally, the doctor had wrangled him back into his armchair to watch the news, while he awaited dinner and more stories.

Only then, did John feel comfortable enough to leave him and see to his own personal needs.

Tired and mentally exhausted with worry, he stepped into the shower and turned on the hot water. John allowed himself the luxury of a few minutes of blissful relaxation, before his mind returned to this problem with his flatmate. How on earth was he going to explain it all to Mrs. Hudson? With a sigh he turned off the shower, and in the quiet he could hear the soundtrack from the television through the door that he had left slightly ajar to monitor Sherlock's presence.

He was reaching for the towel then as he was stepping out the shower stall, just like he had done a thousand times before when he slipped. Crying out, he scrambled for purchase on the slippery floor, desperately flinging out one hand to steady himself, and in the process managing to give his bad shoulder a good wrench.

Wave after wave of pain exploded out like red hot fire from his old wound and he closed his eyes against sensation, curling up on to himself to lean on the wall. It took him a minute or two before he was in control of himself again, only to realise that he wasn't hearing the television anymore. One handedly, he reached for a towel and wrapped it awkwardly about him, just as a tentative knock sounded on the door.

'I'm fine,' John called out automatically.

'I heard you cry out,' came the concerned response, 'what happened?'

'Just need a minute,' John replied evasively, still not able to stand fully upright as yet. 'I am okay.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes, I am sure.'

There was a long silence where neither of them moved.

'Well I'm _not_ sure!' Sherlock remarked with a scowl that John could feel even if he couldn't see.

Long fingers clasped the edge of the door, 'Can I come in?'

'I would rather you didn't', John remarked, however he was resigned to having this conversation and he waited as a curly mop of hair, followed by a pair of blue eyes peeked around the door in slow increments.

'John!'

Sherlock came in all in a rush of worry, hovering around uncertainly, 'Is it broken? Why are you holding your arm like that?'

The detective assisted him to limp/shuffle over to the toilet, where he put down the cover so he could sit. The doctor could feel the sudden stillness run through Sherlock, when he shifted his position and exposed his bad shoulder to the strong bathroom light.

'It's an old wound,' John assured him, 'hurts like the dickens in cold weather, but other than that it gives no trouble.'

John looked up to see the question in the man's eyes. 'You asked earlier what type of doctor I was. I am, no I _was_ an army doctor.'

Sherlock hummed quietly to himself, as if this information had filled in some question he had.

'It was in Afghanistan,' John added in.

'I know,' he murmured.

John looked up quickly in surprise,wondering if the old Sherlock was back, but the other man shook his head. 'I just know, I don't know how I know.'

John considered trying to explain but feared he would muck it up, and he was too tired now in any case.

In the meantime, Sherlock reached out a hand, asking for permission. At John's nod, he proceeded to tighten the man's towel so it wouldn't fall, and then drape John's good arm across his shoulder. Carefully, he maneuvered the man out into his bedroom which was closest to the bathroom.

'There's a hot water bottle in the bathroom cupboard, third shelf on the left,' John informed him as he took a chair. Sherlock soon returned with the requested item, and draped it over the injury. It didn't take a genius to deduce that the doctor was still in a lot of pain as he slouched over on his chair, with a sickly look to his face.

Sherlock shuffled his feet.

John probably wanted him to go, but was too polite to say so. The doctor was a war hero, why would he want anyone staring at him when he was in such a vulnerable state? For a second, a messy ball of emotions rolled into Sherlock's mind as he stood there staring into space. John was a loyal friend, hero doctor, compassionate person, and he, Sherlock was this overly tall flake, with curly hair. Why were they even friends, far less best friends?

'Should I go?' he asked in sudden doubt and despair.

'No!' John said emphatically and without even looking up, he reached out to clutch a handful of Sherlock's dressing gown.

Sherlock sat on his bed with a silly grin. It was probably a bit not good to feel so happy at the moment, but it felt good not to be sent away.

 _Really_ good.


	7. Chapter 7

**Anote:** This sketch came out a little sadder than I intended.

 **Chapter 7** -

With his knife and fork at the ready, Sherlock looked down at the cloth napkin draped on his lap before glancing across at John who was sitting next to him, similarly poised. He had been informed that they had their dinner here infront the television off trays, instead of at the kitchen table which was usually in an unhygienic disarray.

'And Mrs Hudson is our housekeeper?' Sherlock inquired.

John snorted quietly in amusement, 'Technically she's our landlady, but she has a big soft spot for you. Every time she does a roast, she calls in the morning and lets us know she has extra. Roast is your favourite.'

Sherlock nodded in understanding, excited to meet someone else who was friendly to him, and one that liked to cook too! He had been getting hungry while John was showering, and was of course dismayed to find that they didn't have anything to eat in their cupboards.

'Is your girl coming, tonight? I don't think you said her name,' Sherlock said graciously, feeling in a charitable mood at the prospect of a hot roast on its way to his empty plate, 'Should we get another tray?'

'What girl?'

'The one you mentioned before. The one that almost got skewed with the spear.'

John relaxed. 'Her name is Sarah. No, we are not dating anymore.'

In the ensuing silence the doctor refocused his mind, trying to figure out the best way to broach this topic of Sherlock's memory loss with Mrs Hudson. Would a head on approach be best?

'So...,' Sherlock glanced around in almost his old familiar way as though deducing, 'do we have girlfriends? I am thinking not, as this flat is not by any standard inviting to the females.'

John put down his cutlery slowly unsure as to what to say. His friend Sherlock, couldn't give two straws about attachments that distracted from the Work.

'You're right. We're die-hard bachelors,' John decided to say, 'but you have your share of "admirers".'

Sherlock waved his fork inviting him to continue. He scowled when John just sat there and twiddled his thumbs in a foolish manner.

'Why have I not asked anyone out on a date?!'' he snapped in irritation, 'Am I shy? I don't _feel_ shy!'

John restrained himself from rolling his eyes. 'No, you don't have a problem making yourself heard. You...you are more guarded where it comes to matters of the heart.'

The doctor felt congratulations were in order.

He didn't know where that burst of inspiration came from but it was an epic relief when Sherlock subsided, and no longer looked that interested in this topic. Even now John could feel that pain in his chest when he thought of, "The Woman". Sherlock could usually take care of himself but John had never been so worried for his friend in all his days, until they had first meet Ms. Irene Adler.

'A woman hurt me,' Sherlock blurted out so suddenly that John jumped. Open mouthed, he stared as the detective looked across at him expectantly for confirmation.

'I don't want to talk about this!' John fired off without thinking.

Sherlock nodded to himself. John had been hurt too, probably dragged reluctantly into the cross fire as the best friend. Had he gone against John's good advice? It was likely, judging from the deep crease in between the doctor's eyebrows.

'Are there any of my "admirers" who you _do_ wish to talk about?' he asked in a more subdued way.

John picked up his cutlery again. 'Sherlock, don't worry about that now. Although...'

The detective perked up as John pointed a fork at him to get his undivided attention.

'...when we run into a young woman named Molly, even in your state its going to be obvious that she has a massive crush on you. Speak to her nicely.'

Sherlock frowned.

 _Speak to her nicely? What did that mean?_

'What do you think of her?' Sherlock said archly, trying to wheedle more information out of his flatmate who was again staring distractedly at the door of the flat.

'We don't know each other well,' John admitted, 'but you two have been mates for years. You have a shared passion for forensic science. Molly is quiet, and I always thought of her as a bit of a mouse actually, but if anyone says a word against you, look out! She is ready to morph into an angry bear!'

John gave him a lopsided grin of reassurance and turned to stare at the door again, as if this would make Mrs. Hudson appear faster. If he hadn't done so, he might have noticed the downcast expression on his friend's face. In Sherlock's head his past choices, where he ignored and pushed away a loyal, loving friend like Molly in favour of someone who had hurt him, was a direct reflection of his character; one that was beginning to look poorer by the minute.

Of course there could be some reasonable explanation, but maybe the reason he was taking so long to regain his memory was because deep down, he didn't want to.


	8. Chapter 8

**Anote** : continued directly from the last chapter

 **Chapter 8** -

John was taken off guard when Sherlock stood up suddenly and kicked back his chair. However, the good doctor quickly regrouped and moved to copy this gesture of manners as Mrs. Hudson expertly opened their front door with her elbow, and walked in carrying a heavy tray of meat.

'Hoo hou,' she called in her usual unique way.

It was unlikely she noticed anything strange though, as the dear lady concentrated on picking a safe path through the mismatched furniture of their cluttered sitting room. In the meantime, Sherlock was staring at her face eagerly, as though trying to trace a memory. John looked at him hoping for recognition, but after a while the young man glanced across and shook his head slightly in regret.

'My, we are all formal tonight, dearies,' Mrs. Hudson tripped brightly as she came closer.

So much for not noticing. Their landlady was sharper than most people thought, himself included, John realized with a grimace.

The men quietly resumed their seats while the woman began dishing out the hot roast into their plates. 'I didn't expect you back so early, were you waiting long? I just had to finish my hair.'

John looked up as the woman patted her hairstyle in the way the ladies did, when they wanted you to make a remark. It didn't look any different to John. Maybe a shade purple in this light.

'Very lovely,' he remarked warmly, deciding to err on the side of caution, 'you are going out?'

'I have a date,' she announced with a happy smile before rounding on Sherlock with a stern look, 'and I don't want to hear a single mean deduction out of you this time, young man. I will not listen to a word!'

Sherlock seemed shocked at being so addressed, and stared cross eyed at the finger that was wagging at him in a menacing way.

Mrs Hudson frowned at his response.

'Well, this smells yummy!' John interjected desperately, trying to distract the woman as she stared into the unusually subdued expression of one of her oldest friends.

'Yes,' Sherlock agreed softly, 'thank you, it looks delicious.'

To outsiders it was a strange relationship to watch in action. On almost a daily basis Sherlock happily "insulted" his landlady with his razor sharp observations and even sharper tongue, and she in turn was seemingly deaf as a post to everything her tenant shouted at her. It worked for them to politely ignore each other's eccentricities because those things were not important. In true British fashion, they never acknowledged out loud how closely they guarded each other's well being, stemming from a few years ago, when all they had in this awful world were each other. So for all her absent minded ways, Mrs Hudson knew the nuances of her friend's mood swings as well as John did, and she knew for certain now that something was indeed quite wrong.

The motherly woman leaped forward with a cry and cradled Sherlock's face between her withered hands, 'Oh dearest, what happened?'

She felt his head as though checking for a fever.

'Perhaps you should sit,' the doctor counselled. She obediently sat on a convenient foot stool, but didn't release her grip on Sherlock's hand. The detective smiled down at her warmly and he covered her thin hand comfortingly with his other much larger one, much appreciating this show of concern. John then opened his mouth but unexpectedly, nothing came out.

'Some time today,' she suggested tartly as the silence stretched on, 'while we are still young.'

Sherlock grinned at her fiery spirit. He could see why he liked her.

'I have lost my memory, Mrs Hudson,' he informed her crisply as John continued to dither, 'It is most inconvenient.'

'I would imagine so,' she murmured in shock as she pressed a hand to her chest. 'Dear me, that's not something your hear everyday.'

The doctor sighed in exasperation at Sherlock's odd way of explaining the situation, but froze as the other man suddenly telegraphed his distress with a sharp look. John's eyes cut to where the two friends were still holding hands. Quickly he rose to his feet and walked a few steps to the cupboard, where he kept a medical bag.

'Are you having trouble breathing, Mrs H?' he asked in a soft but commanding manner that always served to calm a distressed patient, 'Tell me where it hurts.'

Their landlady energetically batted away John's stethoscope that he was trying to place on her breast, 'Don't fuss, it's just a flutter. For goodness sake, I am not the patient here!'

She rose to her feet and placed her hands on her hips, as she glowered down at Sherlock in an irritated manner. 'Why does everything happen to you? Why?'

'Is that a rhetorical question?' Sherlock asked so seriously in turn, that it caused John to dissolve into an unbecoming fit of giggles.

Their landlady checked her watch again, before giving John a pointed look, 'I'll be back soon. See what you can do with him.'

She walked out the flat, quietly shaking her head at the madness that was part and parcel of living at 221B.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

He had offered to stay up with Sherlock and keep him company while the detective did, whatever he usually did in the dead of the night.

The other man waved him off absently.

John was relieved though, because the stress of the day was starting to catch up with him, and he was swaying on his feet. Fifteen minutes later John had pulled on his pyjamas and was gratefully turning over the covers, when he heard an odd strangled noise through the door he had left open, just in case.

Instinctively he froze in midair to listen and sure enough, soft bare footfalls pattered across the floor coming closer and closer. John dropped his pillow as he hastily moved to the bedroom door, where he almost collided with a speeding Sherlock in the process.

'What happened?' he asked sharply; grabbing the young man by the biceps to keep him still and in one place. Had Sherlock remembered something else?

Because of the violence they encountered in their line of work, John had no trouble imagining that another memory flash without context could be quite scary. Sherlock did look quite upset but after a moment, a familiar mask of haughty indifference descended over his features.

'You want to talk about it?' John inquired more gently this time, as he released his tight grip. Sherlock walked into his room and looked around, carefully keeping his back to him.

In the meantime John sat on the edge of his bed, waiting patiently.

'Your room is quite small,' Sherlock commented oddly, still not turning around. Clearly he was going for the let's-talk-about-this-maybe-never approach.

The doctor looked around his space absently, 'I am content. You pay the bigger share of the rent in any case.'

The silence stretched on and John sighed quietly, 'You can trust me, you know.'

'Can I?' Sherlock hissed unexpectedly into the gloom.

'You already do!' John replied so insistently, that it made Sherlock turn his head slightly to look over his shoulder in surprise.

'Something startled you and the first thing you do is come to me,' the doctor explained as he touched his chest with his fingers, 'You trust me in your heart, even if you don't remember how to do so in your head.'

Sherlock seemed to consider this and eventually he turned all the way around. 'Perhaps it's me you don't trust?'

John frowned at such an absurd notion.'What are you going on about?'

The young man picked up a hairbrush and pretended to examine it. 'Should I speak plainly?'

'You always do,' John remarked softly but he was startled when the detective suddenly pointed the hairbrush at him.

'Then I ask you this,' Sherlock shouted, 'is it coincidence that my flatmate is a doctor?!'

Totally ignoring his aggressive manner, John gently guided the brush out his face, 'You will have to tell me when you come back to yourself. Being a doctor is not something I can separate from my person, but I am your friend first, and your doctor second. Actually, I am not your doctor at all, even though everyone thinks that I am.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

'Well of course I take care of you when you have a headache, or a tummy upset,' John added on, carefully making his verbal way forward as Sherlock didn't react, 'and over the last couple of months I have accumulated a file.'

Sherlock stepped closer and John picked up his phone to open the encrypted document. The detective then sat on the edge of the bed as he anxiously scrolled through the file.

'Who is Dr. Thompson?' he asked.

'He is the doctor that I have selected, if you ever have to go into emergency.'

Sherlock raised an inquiring eyebrow.

'You decided to go with my selection, instead of your brother's.'

'No, you misunderstand, ' Sherlock interjected,'why another doctor? why don't you do it, if we are friends?'

John scooted backwards and lounged against the wall to think. 'It's dangerous, Sherlock. In an emergency, you need a doctor who is cool and objective. If something happened to you that meant you had to go to the hospital, I would be a mess. It is better this way.'

'I would prefer you,' Sherlock said stubbornly but quietly as John's voice cracked under the strain, betraying how the conversation was affecting him. 'And now that I know about the vile Dr. Thompson waiting to poke around my innards, I realise that I am glad that you are a doctor.'

'Sherlock, what brought this on? Where are you going with this?'

The detective proceeded to scroll through the rest of his unofficial medical file in silence, before he closed it off. 'Only one paragraph on my drug usage.'

There was no way Sherlock could mistake the way John flinched suddenly, given that they were sitting on the same bed, 'I found some paraphernalia in my underwear drawer; syringes and the like.'

The detective bowed his head and looked down despairingly at the palms of his hands, 'I have made a mess of things, haven't I? It's a wonder you stay with me.'

With a compassionate sigh, John crept closer and looped a supportive arm across the man's shoulders, 'You should have said something right away. You're not using, not since we have been together. It's alright.'

Sherlock nodded his head and sucked in a huge gulp of air trying to calm himself. God, what a relief!

'You're a bit addicted to nicotine patches in a way I don't like,' John continued, rubbing soothing circles across his back, 'but its not too bad. At least you don't drink.'

Now it was John's turn to look down sadly at his hands.

Sherlock's eyes cut sideways to his face, as John's voice trailed off in embarrassment. Either the doctor had or has a drinking problem, one that was he heartily ashamed of. Now Sherlock felt like a heel for being so self centered and uncaring. They were both a mess in some way or the other.

He reached over and took John's hand, squeezing it supportively in the silence.


	10. Chapter 10

**Anote** : If anyone has any additional ideas for these one shots, please let me know.

Chapter 10

Sherlock was vastly amused that John, four minutes and thirteen seconds after insisting he would stay awake and keep him company, fell asleep slumped against his shoulder.

 _Four minutes and thirteen seconds?_

What an odd observation. Why not five minutes or ten minutes?

Sherlock rubbed his forehead distractedly, worried about these seemingly random pieces of information that swam across his mind's eye.

For example when he was taking a shower earlier on, he noted that the bath water was a cool twenty five and a half degree Celsius. Who noticed things like that? What was the point?! John had informed him that he was a private detective of sorts and had a keen eye for facts, but this was something else entirely. He couldn't control it, and facts and figures were suddenly starting to wander in and out his head at an alarming pace, every time he looked at something.

This loss of memory was beginning to become a gigantic pain in the buttocks.

In the meantime, he turned to gently lower John to the bed and pull up his blanket, ensuring that all exposed toes and fingers were covered. The doctor snuffled in his sleep but then settled down, contented it would appear to be rolled up like a piece of sushi. Sherlock then strangely found himself focused on counting the pulse point in John's exposed neck.

The young man clapped his hands over his eyes in dismay, wondering what he was doing. He still hadn't quite gotten over the astounding revelation that he had once experimented with hard drugs, and now this bit of strange of behavior had to rear its ugly head. John would be so freaked out by this. He was freaked out!

 _Freak._

Something cold uncoiled in his belly but in the next moment, the memory started to fade. He concentrated fiercely, coaxing the memory to come forward but like all the instances so far, the information stayed out of reach.

Eventually he gave up and when he finally came back to himself, Sherlock found that he had been staring fixedly at his dim reflection in John's table mirror.

'I am _not_ a freak!' he insisted to his mirror image; ducking to nimbly avoid the pillow John sent sailing in his direction.

'Quiet,' the doctor muttered irritably, as he shuffled around like an energetic caterpillar, safe and warm in its cocoon. Sherlock smiled wistfully down at John's shoulder, just visible by the lights in the street outside. Unlike the doctor, he wasn't tired at all, perhaps too keyed up by the adrenaline of the last couple of hours. He would welcome the blankness of sleep right about now though; anything to quiet the way his mind was pinging like one of those old arcade games.

'Go back to sleep, John,' he remarked casually, and sure enough the suggestion was enough to push the man back into the unconscious.

'And I am glad you're here,' Sherlock whispered down at his friend, after he was sure that the other man was fast asleep. The detective had a strong feeling that he did not normally say such complimentary things out loud. Perhaps he should change that; especially where John was concerned. If he had to do this on his own, he felt certain that he would have been well on his way to being completely unhinged.

Carefully he rose from his seat on the edge of the bed and walked across to stare out of John's single window.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

For a second John stared blearily at the ceiling above, his mind blank and peaceful before his brain rebooted suddenly with his memories of yesterday, and all that he had to do today.

 _Ha! Rebooted!_

Only Sherlock would appreciate the computer reference he mused with a grin, yawning expansively. Languidly, he swung his feet over the side of his small bed but then jerked back.

'Good Lord,' he intoned softly as he peeped over the edge, trying to calm the hammering of his heart.

Now when they were in the thick of a case and bullets were flying, there would be no time for sleep. Together they would battle on, long into the night but if one of them succumbed to exhaustion (read John), the other would relent and find refuge for them both. This resulted in the doctor waking up side by side with Sherlock in a number of strange places; the kitchen of the National museum, one of the tables in the morgue, the Palace (don't ask), but John never had a recollection of Sherlock sleeping in his room before.

During the night, the young man had pulled together some cushions and made himself a cosy nest with blankets, right on the floor at the edge of the bed. John now propped himself up on one arm and stared down at his friend, who was dead to the world in his favourite fetus position.

This telling act of Sherlock of not wanting to be alone, tore at something vital inside of John. The other man on the face of things seemed to be handling his memory loss so well, but how frightening it must be to look in the mirror and not know the reflection staring back at you.

John gave himself a mental shake.

He had depended on Sherlock's strength time and time in the past. He could not fail his best friend now when the situation was reversed. He grinned though, when Sherlock's stomach rumbled loudly enough to wake him.

The detective blinked owlishly about him as he sat up and give his eyeball a good knuckle rub.

'Good morning,' the young man eventually greeted him in such a polite way that it was apparent he was still not himself. John smiled in return, even as he felt disappointment gather like a tight knot in his chest.

'Slept well?' John inquired, as he got up and automatically began making the bed.

The young man sprang up too and began tidying away his own blankets. He then trotted after the doctor, emulating what the other man did as he put away his extra pillows in the narrow wardrobe. John was tempted to remark that he wasn't usually this helpful, but decided to refrain and enjoy it while he could.

'I think I slept about three hours,' Sherlock said softly, 'I wasn't tired.'

John waved at him reassuringly, 'You don't usually sleep for long periods. That is normal for you. Sorry I fell asleep on you though. What did you do?'

'I spoke to my brother through the window,' he then unexpectedly answered, almost causing John to concuss himself on the bed frame.

'What did he want?!' John yelped anxiously, whipping around to face him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, analyzing this emotional response. Didn't he normally speak to Mycroft?

'He asked me how I was feeling. Don't we normally speak?' he asked out loud, as John waited for an answer.

The doctor bit his lip and turned his head away, 'of course you do.'

Sherlock scoffed under his breath.

'If this is what you look like when you lie, John,' he then remarked calmly, 'then you should not play at cards.'

The doctor huffed in annoyance and opened the door to go use the toilet. He was startled when Sherlock dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

'Where are you going?' the detective cried in alarm, as if afraid that the other man was about to walk straight out of the flat in his pyjamas, and abandon him forever. John patted Sherlock's arm gently, sensing the man's growing panic that his "insult" had stepped over the line of their friendship.

'I need to empty my bladder,' he informed in nonchalantly, trying to keep the atmosphere easy and casual. By degrees, the wild look left Sherlock's eyes and he released his arm in slow increments.

John made a note to himself not to let that happen again. Sherlock needed as much support as he could possibly muster while he was in this state of mind. As he pulled him down the steps, the doctor switched topics to distract him.

'You and your brother don't get along well,' he explained, 'you are very competitive; always trying to best each other.'

John walked into the bathroom leaving the door open behind him.

'Don't get me wrong though,' he added as he raised the seat of the toilet, 'he cares about you in his own particular way. He would flatten London if that is what was needed to protect you.'

'I see,' Sherlock remarked from outside in the corridor.

The doctor walked back out to the doorway with a bemused look.

'You usually come into the bathroom,' he explained as Sherlock stared back blankly.

'Why would I do that? the detective asked with a frown of confusion.

'Well...er...'

John found himself giggling ruefully in his head. He often wondered if Sherlock didn't understand the concept of personal boundaries, as much as he was distracted by The Work. Here was the answer apparently.

The doctor returned to use the facilities, switching with Sherlock when he was done.

'Hang on,' John directed towards the closed bathroom door as he put up the kettle on the stove, 'did you and Mycroft talk through my window? I am two floors up.'

'I can sign,' the detective said slowly as he emerged from the washroom, 'didn't you know that?'

'Wow,' John breathed in astonishment, 'Can I see?'

Sherlock obliged by signing good morning.

John even looked more astounded by this. Sherlock didn't find it so amazing. John was a doctor and when he moved his hands, he could sometimes bring a person back to life. Now that was astounding!

'Wait one God darned minute,' John then interjected abruptly, his face morphing into a suspicious scowl, 'Do you read lips?'

'Only French, I am afraid,' Sherlock admitted disappointingly, smiling ruefully as John broke down into an unexpected peal of laughter.

Sherlock didn't think he was funny but he liked John's laugh very much. He resolved to make him laugh at least once more before the day was out, but as he got out two mugs for making tea, he peered at the doctor from the corner of his eye.

John eventually gave him a questioning eyebrow.

'About what I said earlier,' Sherlock answered in turn, 'I can see that you were discomfited. It was only... an observation. You have an expressive countenance. My words were not intended as an insult.'

John busied himself with getting out the slices of bread as the other man helpfully and unexpectedly retrieved plates.

In the meantime, Sherlock worried his lip when the other man didn't look up to acknowledge his apology. Should he try again?

'Sherlock, the way you speak the truth is one of the best things about you,' John said firmly but with a sad smile, thinking back to those dark days before he had met the detective, when he was adrift and useless. God only knew where he would be now if Sherlock hadn't picked him up, dusted him off and dragged him all around London in pursuit of the truth, 'and besides, if you can't tell your friend the truth, what kind of friend is that?'

'Best friend,' Sherlock corrected his prose.

John smiled as he depressed the lever on the toaster, 'the very best.'

In the reflection of the kitchen appliance, he could see Sherlock's smug expression. John pretended to be thinking hard as he scratched at the morning stubble on his face, 'Well one of my best friends, at any rate.'

Sherlock's face fell and he pouted in such a sour but yet endearingly familiar manner, that John laughed again and threw his arms around him.

Surprised but pleased, Sherlock bent over awkwardly to return his hug.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

'I am ready to go to the market!' Sherlock announced excitedly as he sprang out his bedroom where he had gone in to change, 'Where are the shopping bags?'

John raised his hand absently in the air to show him that he already had the handle bags, while he continued to stare at the television where the newsman was making a report. The criminal that they had been so diligently tracking yesterday before Sherlock's head accident, had struck again.

 _Grrrr!_

John switched off the programme with an angry press of the remote. They had to get Sherlock's memory up and running again!

Head wounds that affected the brain were a tricky thing to treat. Normally after any trauma, he would recommend rest and good food, but after an injury like Sherlock's would it be better to get him back in the proverbial saddle, right away? John sighed miserably in his mind. He didn't know what was the right thing to do.

'We have to stop by the pharmacy too, ' the doctor announced quietly as he rose from his chair, 'Brian needs some cold medication.'

'Brian?'

'He's our neighbor,' John started to explain but fell silent, as he stared in astonishment at the other man's outfit.

Sherlock looked down automatically to check if his zipper was open.

'I didn't know you owned a pair of blue jeans,' John spluttered faintly.

The detective idly fingered the garment in question, 'I have two in fact, along with the some other items which I trust are disguises for the Work.'

'What now?' he asked in exasperation as John skewed him with an intense look.

'It's the way you said "the Work",' the smaller man explained, 'it's something you normally say.'

Sherlock patted his hair self consciously when John continued to stare at him, as though he was a museum exhibit. He had tried to slick down his long hair with gel, undecided if he really liked the mass of curls he normally sported.

'Are we going or not?!' he finally barked out, and John snapped out of his reverie; walking briskly towards the door. He was stopped as Sherlock hooked his arm.

'Wait,' the detective murmured, 'Sorry, sorry I shouted. I will go change clothes.'

John reached up to rest a strong hand on his shoulder, and waited for Sherlock to fully look at him. 'Do you want to wear jeans today? Answer the question, don't say what you think I want to hear?!'

Sherlock was again struck by the commanding tone John would sometimes adopt. One had to wonder what the good doctor was capable of when tested.

'Yes, I want to wear jeans and my trainers,' Sherlock finally admitted in a whine, as he held out one foot to point out the change in his foot wear too, 'why do I have to wear a pressed shirt and trousers, if we are not going in to work?'

John smiled and ducked his head, 'you don't understand. Those aren't work clothes. You dress like that all the time.'

The young man frowned as he digested this new information, 'I really am addicted to fashion, aren't I? Can you say diva?'

The doctor giggled at Sherlock's pained expression, before regarding him with a serious look. 'The way you dress, the way you look is just one sliver of what makes you, you. You are so complex; you are so much more than you know. I should not have said anything about your jeans because I can see the doubt in your eyes. I only said something because if we come across anyone we know, they are going to stop you and ask questions. And you really, really, hate that. '

'Tell me more,' Sherlock requested, one part curious, the other part nervous, 'tell me more about this complex person you know.'

'God, where do I begin?' John mused, not missing Sherlock's anxious look, 'well I have told you already that you are smart, and you have an incredible memory. You are secretive, and mysterious. You're funny and you are loyal. You're utterly annoying and disgustingly untidy. You're rude and...'

Sherlock frowned again not liking this downward spiral.

'...and you're brave in ways that I could never be.'

The detective narrowed his eyes in disbelief, wondering if John was joking. He had slept curled up at the foot of the man's bed, rather than sleep is his own room and face the awful blankness of his thoughts and memories.

'But I am not the one who invaded Afghanistan,' the young man retorted sharply.

John's lips curled softly upwards into a grin at the deja-vous moment. His Sherlock was inside there somewhere and it was a comforting thought. 'That wasn't just me, I assure you.'

* * *

Sherlock's nose twitched as he approached the bakery section at a fast trot.

He had abandoned John three aisles down, but really! How long did it take the average person to decide on a selection of canned soup?! The situation was made even more horrible by the presence of a vapid female, hanging off John's shoulder under the pretense of assisting.

The detective stood smack in the middle of the cake section; his eyes darting from left to right as he took in the sumptuous desserts. Deducing that John as a doctor would probably forbid him from too many pastries, he made a quick choice. It was with a sense of triumph when he opened his paper bag, and began eating.

The sudden sugar rush was mellowing out his mood quite nicely, which had taken a sharp dive when the attractive cashier ladies had said hello and good-morning to John only. For some reason, the women pretended to examine their manicures when he attempted to wave a greeting at them. One of the packers had even changed direction, when he noticed Sherlock coming down his aisle with the trolley.

What the bleeding hell was that all about? He had been thoroughly put out by the attitude of the staff of a shop he presumably visited all the time!

But Sherlock didn't care, not as he chomped happily on his powdered sugar donuts.

 _Nom nom nom._

He had eaten four donuts before John came galloping around the corner, completely out of breath.

'Didn't I tell you, _not_ to wander off?! the doctor hissed as he clutched at the stitch in his side. 'You almost gave me a heart attack.'

Sherlock thought back on the events of last night when he realized that his brother had stationed guards in the street outside their flat all night, 'Is my life so dangerous?'

'No, you're just that valuable,' John informed him in such a serious manner that it left no room for doubt. He truly believed what he said, and Sherlock was at a loss of how to respond to such a flattering comment.

Gone was earlier mood of irritation, when he felt as though all the staff of the market were avoiding him. He didn't need any of them, not when he had a person in his corner like John Watson.

Sherlock held out his paper bag and offered him the last donut.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13** -

Sherlock supposed he had been staring to the point of rudeness, but was it really necessary for John to kick him in the shin _that_ hard?

 _OWWW! Bugger beeping beep!_

He growled softly under his breath to express his displeasure.

'Right!' John said brightly over his objections, 'so you are going to visit with Molly in autopsy, while I assist with a differential upstairs. Alright?'

The forensic scientist in question had quickly recovered her composure, as if used to being stared at like she was some sort of strange insect. Smiling graciously at the anxious expression on the good doctor's face, she looped a confident arm through Sherlock's, 'Yes, that is fine. Come along Sherlock, let's see if we can find something exciting to look at.'

Sherlock obediently crooked his elbow so she could rest her hand more comfortably.

'And where exactly are you going to be?!' he turned to asked John, still a bit stunned that the man had been summoned to consult on a patient's upcoming heart procedure, at a world class medical institution.

'I know where he will be,' Molly insisted before John could answer, 'come now with me. Oh and I really like this color jeans you are wearing, Sherlock. Very fashionable!'

Reluctantly, the recovering detective let himself be led. However as they stepped into a gleaming bank of elevators to take them down, he kept glancing sideways at her from the corner of his eye.

Sherlock knew in his head that he should consider him lucky to have such loving, caring friends, because by all accounts he wasn't the most easy going man in the world. He therefore felt a bit petty that he was so massively disappointed by the woman who had this long time crush on his person. The poor girl was as plain as kite paper, and except for her luxurious hair, she didn't have a single redeeming quality in her face!

 _That is mean, Sherlock and you know it. Bad form._

He shook his head, trying to focus his mind in a sensible manner. Looks were not everything and he slapped a smile on his face, wanting to make himself agreeable to this new person who was being kind him.

'I have John's resume if you want to see it,' she said unexpectedly as their elevator descended, 'It's as long as my arm. He was an amazing surgeon.'

Sherlock looked down at her, shocked that she had so clearly picked out these earlier thoughts out of his head. He did want to learn more about John, more especially why a world class physician was acting as his lowly assistant.

'I saw the look on your face before we left him,' she explained quickly. 'You were irritated to be taken by surprise.'

The elevator opened with a melodic ding, and Sherlock looked around distractedly. Suddenly, he wasn't at all sure he cared to be alone with this oh too observant young lady.

'It's quiet,' he remarked somewhat unimaginatively as they walked out.

This made Molly giggle, 'it's not on the London tourist's map, that's for sure!'

She looked back puzzled though as Sherlock pulled softly at her arm, indicating that he didn't want to follow her through the door she now held open.

'Is that a dead body?' he asked quickly in a strangled voice.

With a quiet sigh, Molly looked over her shoulder at the two covered bodies laid out on the steel tables, waiting for her examination. She didn't want Sherlock to see the look of dismay in her eyes, at the extent of his amnesia.

She had read about his condition to refresh her memory, and even went as far as to talk with Sherlock's doctor. He didn't say much of course, but he didn't seemed too concerned. Sherlock was otherwise unhurt and healthy, and that was all he cared about.

She had wanted to hit the man with his clipboard.

He didn't understand what Sherlock's mind meant to him; how it was so much a part of his person and the profession he had chosen. It was as if a concert pianist had lost a hand or a photographer, his eye. And here Sherlock was in her morgue, pretending to be happy with a stupid smile on his face. How very alone and scared he must feel, but he was trying to keep himself together, and she could do no less.

'We can go up to the cafeteria,' she said quickly, 'there could be pie. You like apple the best.'

Sherlock laughed nervously, 'No, I am alright. The bodies took me by surprise, but this is autopsy after all. I am fine, lead on.'

She didn't comment further as he averted his gaze from her examination tables, while she took him to sit in her small office.

* * *

At first, Sherlock didn't think he had the nerve to raise his head, not when he heard the unmistakable sounds of what could only be a bone-saw whining softly. He was glad that Molly had left him alone though, so he could fall apart for a bit in private. Indeed, it was very considerate and he wondered if it had been a deliberate act. Perhaps it was, they had been friends for a long time.

However, he was going to look eventually, Sherlock had already decided that. He had to. Forensics was a large part of his life, judging from the company he kept.

Hopefully it would be like riding a bike.

 _Maybe I'll get lucky and bop my head on the edge of the table as I pass out, and my memory will be restored._

Sherlock told the sarcastic voice in his head to shut up as he took in a deep breath and then another. Finally, he raised his head to survey the office he was in.

 _Okay, this is not too bad._

The autopsy was at a comfortable distance and Molly was leaning over her "specimen" blocking it from view. As a precaution though, he continued to take deep calming breaths as he curiously looked around the neat office. Files all color coded in a series of pastels lined the desk, and pens and pencils were in suitable receptacles. Various anatomical charts also dotted the steel white walls interspersed by pictures of a cat; a tom by the looks of it. No family pictures though. Sherlock glanced at the opposite wall and then almost fell off his chair in shock.

Gradually he stood up and walked over; his mouth hanging open in amazement. Reaching up one hand he gingerly caressed one of the hundred post it notes that curtained the wall, all covered in his handwriting.

 _Oh ...my... God._

Molly came up behind him after a few minutes.

'Isn't it awesome?!' she remarked excitedly as any true scientist would, 'you have a wall like this in Baker street, but you get worried that Mrs Hudson or John may clean it up by accident, so you've made a duplicate here.'

'I don't understand. What is it?'

'Why don't you tell me?' she instead pressed him, gently taking his hand and guiding it along one of the columns.

'They are experimental designs, of course I know that,' Sherlock snapped, 'but...there are so many!'

'And these blue ones over here are the cases that you are investigating,' she explained. Sherlock jumped to the area she indicated.

Eventually he turned to face her. The technician blushed and this time averted her eyes from the intensity of his awed expression.

'Thank you,' he said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. 'Thank you for keeping my thoughts safe.'

'That's okay,' she blurted out, terribly confused that her "crush" was smiling happily down at her and standing so close, 'I am glad to help. It's not like you keep me around for my good looks.'

It was hard to say who was more mortified at that point.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

The surgery consultation took about two hours, and John was just on his way to the elevators when he was stopped by one of the nurses who had a note.

Now the doctor was fairly certain that Mycroft had a protective detail shadowing his little brother, but that didn't stop his worry when he read the note from Sherlock informing him that he had relocated to the hospital cafeteria. Naturally he quickened his pace as he pointed his feet in the specified direction.

With genial nods at nurses and staff who wished him a good evening, he wound his way through the tables of the cafeteria searching for his flatmate. He pulled up short when he finally spied him way in the back, with his head down on his crossed arms as though he was taking a nap. Infront of Sherlock was an empty pie plate and two empty cartons of milk.

The doctor took the chair opposite, and lowered himself quietly into the seat to take stock of the situation.

'Are you finished?' came the gentle inquiry, indicating that Sherlock was not sleeping.

'Did you eat an _entire_ pie?' John instead asked with understandable incredulity.

'It was good pie,' Sherlock rumbled mutinously at him.

The doctor's eyes narrowed when he observed how Sherlock's carefully groomed hair, was now stuck up in their usual wild, fluffy display.

'What happened?'

Sherlock ignored him. It was almost like old times again.

'Sherlock, look at me when I am speaking to you!' John scolded, crossing his arms with the stubborn intention to sit there in silence until his flat mate sat up. He was not in the mood to be toyed with. Their situation was already difficult without Sherlock keeping secrets from him. John felt a sudden pang when his mind flashed back to a half naked Sherlock standing in the Palace, bawling at his brother that a mystery at both ends was just too much work.

However, a few minutes passed before the recovering detective in front of him reluctantly sat back, stiff as the proverbial board. His hands were clasped on the table before him; knuckles showing white.

John resisted the urge to reach over and tilt Sherlock's face to the light, because something about his color was definitely off.

'What happened?' he asked again, gentling his voice, 'No matter what it is, you can confide in me.'

Sherlock skewered him with a flat expression.

'I won't laugh, no matter how embarrassing,' John reassured him in a whisper, leaning forward to close the large gap between them.

The detective nodded curtly but wouldn't quite meet his gaze, 'I know that, but you already admitted that you don't know Molly that well, so a discussion would be pointless.'

 _Molly?!_

John bit his lip in concern but what Sherlock has said was true enough. However, there was more than way to skin a cat, as they say. 'I don't know her, but I know you.'

Again the other man favoured him with a blank expression.

'Did you quarrel?'

The slight enlargement of Sherlock's pupils then, gave him away.

'You can say you are sorry, you know,' John counselled softly, 'she cares for you a lot.'

'I did apologise,' Sherlock shouted crossly, 'it was accepted, we shook hands and the matter is over!'

A sudden silence fell in the void making them realise how loud that last sentence was. Both of them glanced around to check that no one was eavesdropping.

Now that whatever it was, was out in the open, Sherlock seemed to relax a bit more and leaned forward to be closer, indicating his willingness to discuss.

'She looks at me a lot,' he revealed eventually as he creased the edges of his empty pie tin with his long fingers.

'Is that what started the quarrel?' John pushed tentatively, as nothing else seemed forthcoming.

Sherlock glared across at him as if he was the most idiotic man in London.

'Of course not!' he snapped,'it was an _observation_ not a criticism. I just find it astounding that a person's entire parasympathetic nervous system readjusts to my proximity. What? Why do look at me like that? Don't you find that amazing?!'

John bit his lip again so he wouldn't laugh. 'Quite, even though I have never heard it phrased like that. Don't leave me in suspense here. I would know what caused your quarrel.'

Sherlock tsked under his breath as the memory came forward. Molly had been concerned by some test results.

The recovering detective had eventually come out of her office and had started to slowly explore the lab, which was decorated with many curious specimens in jars; fingers, eyeballs, bone fragments etc. He was pleased when she encouraged him to shake them if he so desired, which was quite fun. It had been so much fun in fact, that he had not noticed when she stopped turning the pages of her forensic report. She kindly explained when he inquired that she did not think the evidence fit the conclusions drawn.

He had promptly pulled up a steel stool to have a listen. This was apparently though the wrong thing to do.

Sherlock didn't like how hard he had to work to coax the alternative explanations out of her. She seemed almost afraid? embarrassed? to put forward her thoughts. But after some doing and with a full blast of puppy dog eyes, she finally opened up.

The change in her being had been so dramatic that Sherlock couldn't remember why he thought she was so plain to look at before. Indeed, the more he kept silent, the more her courage seemed to grow, and the more animated her manner became.

'So...' John prodded as the story seemed to falter again. He sensed they were getting close to the part where the quarrel began. The doctor had been quite happy by what he had heard so far, and he was glad that Sherlock had such a good evening in one of his favorite places in all of London. 'What next? Did you figure out what the problem was with the test results?'

'No, she did...' Sherlock muttered, looking down in a shifty way.

The right answer had come to her in a sudden rush of inspiration and with a shout of triumph, she twirled around and jumped into his arms.

'...and then I kissed her.'

'WHAT!' Where?!'

'In autopsy'

'No, I meant on the cheek or on the mouth?'

Sherlock turned white and then bright red in shame at the horror on the other man's face, 'on the mouth.'

'Christ!' John hissed out without thinking, putting Sherlock further on the defensive.

'Christ?! That's your only response?! the detective snarled back, as he thumped the table hard with his clenched fist, 'what the bloody hell does that mean?! What's so wrong with a kiss?! I will have you know that I am a fantastic kisser! Fan-frigging-tastic!'

 _Oh boy._

Jon blew out an exasperated breath. 'Sorry, I was just surprised.'

'You're not the only one,' Sherlock mumbled petulantly, his anger rapidly fading like a popped balloon, 'she slapped me.'

The two men slouched low on their chairs, staring at each other. John really had no idea how to begin.

'Not good?'

The doctor sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose, 'No, not good but not terrible either. You are not yourself Sherlock, so you need to be careful in your relations with others. I know you know that she has a crush on you, but you don't reciprocate those feelings. It's not decent to lead someone on...unless...'

And here John gave him such a piercing look that it made him fidget with the pie tin again.

John had said that he, Sherlock was guarded when it came to matters of the heart. In his present state he didn't know what to think. Perhaps he should confine himself to the flat until he came to his senses. It had eviscerated him to the core when he heard Molly crying in her office. He had then descended to a new level of pain when, on trying the door handle, only to realise she had locked him out. He hadn't thought she would react like that since she was so attracted him. She adored him, a blind man could see that and he...

Sherlock mentally sighed to himself when he couldn't finish his sentence. She had every right to be angry. Although her romantic feelings were not returned, she still loved him enough to risk herself by offering her friendship, and because of that decision he was one of the few men in the world who could hurt her so deeply.

'Why, Sherlock?' John asked curiously, breaking into his bleak mental wanderings, 'why did you kiss her? Did a memory come back? Out of all the women you know, you _do_ try to go out of your way to be more or less decent to Molly...on occasion. Do you feel some ...tenderness for her? You can trust me with your secrets.'

Various replies pinged around in Sherlock's curly head but there was just one which sounded the loudest, albeit the dumbest reason he had ever heard. He truly hoped John would not laugh. He leaned forward and the doctor eagerly copied him.

'She was just _so_ brilliant, John,' he whispered pathetically, as if begging the other man to understand.

The doctor opened his mouth and after a moment closed it. He then repeated the action, much to the detective's annoyance.

'Are you quite _sure_ we are best friends, John?!' he snorted nastily, irritated by the lack of help he was receiving. John held up a hand to reassure him that he was actively thinking, but this time he couldn't stop the bubble of laughter that escaped him.

Sherlock frowned darkly down at him with murder in his eyes.

'Well, you really, really, really, enjoy "brilliance",' John finally replied with an impish twinkle, 'so your explanation is not as out there as you may think.'

Sherlock was still frowning but he felt a sweeping sensation of ease at his friend's words. Did that mean Molly might understand, eventually?

'I made her cry, John' he confessed, to which the doctor nodded in resignation; the smile fading from his lips. John didn't need need anyone to tell him that Molly's feelings ran deep for his friend.

'Perhaps we should avoid autopsy for now, as cowardly as that sounds,' Sherlock suggested in a brittle tone of voice.

'It's not cowardly,' John disagreed as he rose to his feet. 'until you are yourself, you are bound to muck up here and there. Your friends will forgive you, Molly will forgive you. Where to now? You can pick.'

Sherlock patted his slightly bulging waistline. 'I think I need to jog off this pie. Let us visit the gymnasium.'

Distracted by Sherlock's unusual desire to jog, John led the way. He therefore missed the moment when the detective turned back, casting a regretful eye at the elevators, before following him out into the street.


	15. Chapter 15

**Anote:** I appreciate the many reviews left by guests. I wish it was possible for me to thank you personally.

 **Chapter 15**

He was not exactly kicked out of the moving vehicle, but it was a near thing as far as Lestrade was concerned.

The man scowled at the dark car that was rapidly retreating down the street. He then turned around to glare at the front of the gymnasium.

 _Ughh._

Couldn't John and Sherlock have gone off for a pint like most middle aged men in London?

Lestrade sighed as he hung his head dejectedly. He had already changed from his work things into a pair of sweats that he had not used in forever. His recent attendance at the gym was spotty at best. Being an Inspector had its perks in that he now had young people at his command to chase down suspects.

 _Why, God? why me?_

 _My life is crap._

He never minded helping Mycroft keep an eye on Sherlock though. He cared for the recalcitrant detective in his own fashion but the bloody theatrics and juvenile sibling rivalry however, he could do without.

With some effort Lestrade picked up his gym bag, and commanded himself to move in a forward direction.

The Inspector entered the building and glanced around, relieved by the gymnasium's relative emptiness. And as if sensing that he was wanted, John swiveled around in his seat where he immediately started to snigger at the older man's appearance.

'The head band is a nice 80's touch', the doctor snorted in between fits of convulsive laughter.

Lestrade grimaced in annoyance. He had assumed they would all be doing something 'sporty' together not just Sherlock, who was in the zone on a treadmill in the back.

'Budge up,' he ordered grumpily and John slid over on the bench to give him some space. The older man dropped his gym bag to the floor as he sank on to the surprisingly comfortable seat. Together, they silently stared at the detective as he steadily ran out his troubles on the exercise machine. If he noticed the new arrival, he wasn't showing it.

'Anything?' Lestrade whispered hopefully, to which John shook his head. Sherlock's memory stayed stubbornly out of reach.

'Well the doc said to give it a few days,' Greg said consolingly to the other man, as the worry lines deepened in his friend's forehead. The inspector gave him a sharp nudge with his shoulder when an extremely attractive young lady walked across their line of vision.

'Well, this is not so bad,' Lestrade muttered happily, as he extended his arms in a relaxing stretch. 'I thought Mycroft brought me here to relieve you as a sparring partner, actually.'

John looked confused and turned to him questioningly. 'Sparring? How do you mean?'

'Sherlock boxes,' Lestrade informed him realizing that the man's flat mate was not in the know, 'well he use to, years ago. This running on the treadmill is something I have never seen.'

'Go on,' the doctor pressed with an astonished look, bending forward eagerly. 'This desire to formally exercise is something new to me too! Boxing, you say?'

Greg smiled wistfully, thinking back to the days when he would hold the punching bag for Sherlock. They had been closer in those times, as Sherlock struggled to simultaneously hone his 'talent' while identifying someone at the Yard, who would be willing to give him a chance at detecting.

Lestrade had been a Sergeant at the time and out of the blue he acquired a skinny shadow; a very tenacious, skinny shadow. Sherlock had chosen him out of all the officers working out in the gym and diligently followed him around with his book bag slung over one shoulder, yelling deductions at him from behind the yellow tape. Then one day it had dawned on Greg that this young man had some pretty decent ideas; better than his at any rate. Lestrade had held up the police tape, Sherlock had nimbly ducked underneath it, and the rest was history as they say.

John was smiling like mad at his story.

'I asked him one day, why me?' Greg continued, 'but he would never answer. He would just smirk in that annoying way he has.'

The doctor clapped his hand on the man's shoulder with a warm look of praise. 'The Yard is damned lucky to have someone of your quality, that's why. Sherlock is no idiot.'

John's unexpected compliment made him flush uncomfortably and he pulled away with a shrug. Sherlock was not a chatty fellow especially about his past, so it was likely that John didn't know about the "mistake". The one which occurred around the same time he made Inspector, but which had sent Sherlock running back to the streets into the arms of the waiting drug pushers.

Greg let his face fall into his hands, wondering why he was dwelling on this again. He had never meant to hurt Sherlock. It wasn't in his nature to be deliberately cruel to anyone.

 _Yeesh, this feels like a life time ago._

'Hey, what's up?' John asked, tapping his shoulder with his, 'feeling okay?'

Sherlock's family had successfully managed to wash him out at a drugs clinic, and Greg had never been more grateful for anything in his entire life. He had been shocked though when Sherlock turned up at the Yard again, and started inquiring after new cases as though nothing had happened. The congratulations card the young man awkwardly deposited on his new shiny desk before he left, had made Lestrade want to throw up.

They weren't exactly friends to start with but their relationship after that had moved to strictly professional. It had been that way for Sherlock ever since with everyone. The consulting detective let no one in, not until the day John showed up.

'I am fine; just memories,' Greg rumbled looking up, 'stuff I don't want to remember.'

John nodded knowingly, having his own share of bad memories to wrestle into submission.

'Tell me a good one first,' John encouraged him in a murmur, 'might make the bad memory easier to share.'

 _Huh? That might work._

 _A good Sherlock story?_

'About three months after we started collaborating,' Lestrade blurted out, struck by sudden inspiration, 'I had a domestic with the missus; a bad one. Went on a bender on that bar on Branston street. Woke up at three in the morning on Sherlock's sofa and he wouldn't let me leave. Kept trying to feed me chicken soup, as though I had a bloody cold. '

John snorted companionably picturing the scene in his mind.

Sherlock had been scared to see his policeman friend so incapacitated but never one to be tactful, he had truthfully stated that he had gotten accustomed to Lestrade and did _not_ want to go though the tedious process of training a new person to work with.

Perhaps it was one of those moments where he had eyes yet he couldn't see, but matters are always annoyingly clearer in hindsight. He should have realised sooner that Sherlock _always_ placed a higher value on the truth, no matter how painful it might be.

From day one, Sherlock's sandpaper personality had made him an outcast at the Yard, and Lestrade had found himself navigating a perfect fire storm of criticism and teasing. One Tuesday the Yard had been celebrating a big bust, one that the had lead to his eventual promotion, when some of the officers started to rag on Sherlock again. In the secret of his heart Lestrade agreed completely that Sherlock was an arrogant sod, but he never said so to the young man. Instead, he showered the boy with attention and praise, wanting to make full use of the genius who never wanted any money or credit for his deductions.

This duplicity of course was a grave error.

He didn't know how long Sherlock had stood in the shadows that day watching him say nothing, as the officers callously dissected his anatomy and sexuality, as though he was a rabid animal and not a human being. He almost choked on an olive when the young man stepped into the light. Flustered and upset that Sherlock had been spying on him, Lestrade had shouted at the boy to clear off. And run away Sherlock did, right back into the streets, devastated to discover he wasn't as special as the Inspector always made him out to be.

Sherlock was so young back then, struggling to prove himself to everyone; struggling to prove his worth even to himself. He was more brittle inside than the version John knew.

'You always had Sherlock's measure,' Lestrade remarked bitterly, 'I am glad he pursued your friendship.

John frowned, not liking the pinched look of pain on the other man's face. 'I think you lost me.'

'You tell him he's a wanker to his face, don't you?' Lestrade tried to explain. 'But behind his back, you have given him your loyalty. I should have done that. Why didn't I do that? It's all he ever wanted.'

'Well, he has my loyalty to a point,' John corrected him, after he took a moment to parse out the inspector's bewildering explanation.

Their eyes connected.

 _To a point, my ass. You would take a bullet for him, and I have nagging suspicion you have already killed a man so he could live._

 _For God's sake Lestrade, what an imagination you have! I would do no such thing._

The inspector raised an eyebrow, but let the unresolved matter drop. He swiveled sideways to straddle the bench and after a while, John followed suit.

'I made a mistake a long time ago,' Lestrade confessed to the doctor in a murmur, 'and I would pay good money if Sherlock doesn't remember that bit. I hurt him so badly.'

A shadow loomed above them and the men looked up.

The inspector's heart started to thunder in his chest like a run away train, as Sherlock's ice blue eyes narrowed into crystal shards of hard glass. The man's calculating expression pierced him all the way to the bone, making him shiver.

He never for a moment thought that Sherlock had ever forgiven his disloyalty. He sort of assumed he had deleted it or moved it to one side, to make room for fresh data.

'Remember something?' Lestrade finally managed to croak out.

'Quite the opposite, in fact,' Sherlock replied calmly, wiping his face with a towel, 'I recognize you from yesterday, but could you remind me of your name? Was it Gerry? Gary? Garfield? It's Garfield, right?'

John started to giggle manically at the pained expression on Lestrade's face.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

With the ends of his hair still dripping slightly from the shower, Sherlock re-entered the main area of the gymnasium. His body was a bit sore from the exercise, but it was a pleasant sort of feeling. In any case, he was much more relaxed than when he had left the morgue, and that upsetting incident with his friend Molly.

The memory of her tear stained face suddenly reemerged in his mind and he promptly pushed it in one corner. Instead he focused on his mates, wondering now what they had decided to do with the rest of their night. Lestrade had appeared to be highly suspicious when he calmly consented to go down the pub, and catch the Cup semi-final on the television.

The recovering detective had explained that everyone should have turn; John had wanted to go to the hospital, he had gotten to visit the gymnasium and now it was only fair that Greg should decide where their merry band should go next.

'Ready,' Sherlock announced as he approached the two men who were talking softly with their heads close together.

'So...the pub?' Lestrade repeated unsurely, as though checking to see if his answer had changed within the last 15 minutes.

The young man rolled his eyes. 'I already explained...'

'...it's not normally your speed,' John cut across him before an argument arose, 'but it's all fine if you want to go there.'

'Forward then!' Sherlock pointed imperiously out the door as he trotted off happily; the matter being settled satisfactorily in his mind.

The Inspector exchanged pained looks with the doctor.

John was pale but composed as he took Sherlock's decision in stride. While it was always pleasant to have a co-operative Sherlock around, Lestrade was missing their temperamental companion as much as John was. The man in front of them was like a watery painting, when compared to Sherlock's normally tempestuous spirit. They s _hould_ be enjoying this lull in the frenetic whirlwind that came with being close to the world famous detective, but they unfortunately were not.

Sherlock turned around when he realised that no one was following.

'Ready?'

Lestrade forced himself to laugh loudly then, trying to diffuse some of the tension. He threw an arm across Sherlock's shoulders and drew him close in a playful bear hug, 'Yeah, we are ready but we better head to my place to dress. I don't think you have anything proper to wear.'

'He doesn't,' John agreed with a small smile, hurrying to catch up with Sherlock on his right.

The young man raised an eyebrow at that but said nothing as he was pulled along. He was just glad that he had somewhere to go and someone to be with. He was in no hurry to face another night staring into his empty mind.

'Who is playing?'

This was obviously the right question as all the way there, the two football fans animatedly traded factoids and other interesting statistics. They seemed to forget that he was there in between them, which made Sherlock feel a little left out, but he stubbornly sucked it up and tried to at least memorise some of the team names and the major players.

They took the tube and between one stop to the next, he was hopelessly lost.

 _Terrific._

He considered asking the two men to change plans for the evening, but he couldn't; not when he saw how excited they looked. He knew John was feeling the strain of baby sitting him all day. He couldn't take away this opportunity for him to have break, could he? What sort of best friend would do that?

Soon they had arrived at Lestrade's house and Sherlock didn't know where to look next as the man laid out his numerous football jerseys on the couch; generously inviting him to take his pick. It warmed him from the inside out, the supreme pains they were taking to make him feel welcome, and to be part of their excitement.

Unfortunately though, it did not appear that he followed the sport as John could not reveal his team preference.

He fingered a blue and gold sport jersey tentatively. 'This one, then?'

Lestrade declared this to be a splendid choice and quick as a blink, he had the jersey over Sherlock's head. Sherlock looked down to survey his new look. The garment fitted him well across the shoulders but it was bit loose in the mid section.

'Do I look well?' he asked his mates, as he attempted to flatten his curls into order.

Lestrade had then enthusiastically offered to paint Sherlock's face to which the recovering detective backed off in alarm, hitting his shoulder against a cupboard in his haste to escape.

'For crying out loud,' Lestrade scolded, waving the small pots at him, 'It's not make up! Get a hold of yourself, man!'

John also firmly declined the offer of face paint as he took a jersey for himself. The older man sniffed at their conservative attitude, while happily proceeding to deck himself off in his team colors from head to toe. They were almost ready to leave when Sherlock turned back and scooped up an extra jersey.

John shrugged in answer to Lestrade's questioning look, but time was of the essence now to get good seats, and they hurried to the Inspector's favourite establishment (HD TV people; HD).

However, if anyone asked Sherlock what he thought of semi-finals night, he would have to admit that he really couldn't hear much over all the screaming, cussing and yelling. It was meditative though to watch the numbers on the screen slowly tick by, and he employed himself watching the minutes and goals pile up; sipping his single beer while safely cocooned between John and Greg's bodies. They didn't seem to at all mind his subdue viewing of their game.

Every now and then though Sherlock glanced at the door or his mobile phone, hoping that his specially invited guest would arrive before the festivities were over. However, they were twenty minutes into the first half before the door finally opened.

 _Yes!_

Hastily he removed their jackets, which they had piled on to the empty chair to save it from being snagged by one of the other patrons. Sherlock waved his arm vigorously trying to get his brother's attention,'over here! what's the matter? Are you blind? I am the only one here in a blue and gold jersey!'

'Huh?' was Lestrade's semi-intelligent remark at the sudden appearance of the suit clad, umbrella carrying government agent, in the grimy loud sports bar.

John looked equally stunned and then worried as Sherlock continued to point vigorously at the empty seat while Mycroft looked at him flatly, certainly not impressed that his brother's summons had caused him to be in this disreputable place. After a while, the older man turned around and walked out the door while Sherlock stood there, mouth hanging open slightly at the snub.

John instinctively tried to put a supportive arm around his friend, only to be angrily pushed off as the detective barreled out the door in pursuit of his big brother, presumably to give him a piece of his mind.

'Save the seats!' John called over his shoulder at the Inspector, as he hurried to follow.

'Are you kidding?' the man yelled back, 'What the blazes is going on? I can't keep three seats in this crowd!'

'Use your badge!' he yelled back in reply.

The doctor was moving so quickly that he almost stepped on the two brothers who were just outside the front door.

'So, you _are_ a bastard, _all_ of the time,' Sherlock growled testily to his sibling, crossing his arms defensively across his chest in a telling show of how he really felt at the man's refusal to spend any of his off duty time with him. 'I have been told we don't get along, but really? Isn't this juvenile? We don't _have_ to talk, you prat! It's so loud in there we would need a megaphone.'

'Ah John,' Mycroft intoned genially, not addressing his brother directly, 'come to referee, as per usual.'

The doctor eyed him stonily, warning him that he was not in the mood to be belittled by anyone with the last name of Holmes.

 _Your brother is alone and hurting. Say something appropriate before I hang you by your stupid neck tie._

However, the government agent was not in the mood to do anything but smirk, apparently deeply amused to see his little brother so festively attired.

In the meantime, Sherlock's arms dropped to his sides in defeat as the silence lengthened. Truly now, he couldn't wait for the day to get his memories back. He was making a hash of everything; first Molly and now this. He should stick his stupid head in a stupid paper bag, and never come out.

'Wait here, I will get you a beer before you go,' he mumbled, 'Do you drink beer?'

Mycroft blink rapidly in reply, no longer able to appear unaffected by this entire episode since receiving Sherlock's text message invitation.

When was the last time Sherlock had ever looked at him so kindly? When was the last time Sherlock offered him something to eat or drink? When was the last time his brother desired to have _his_ company? He couldn't remember or perhaps he didn't want to remember.

 _Caring is not at an advantage, or didn't you know?_

Sherlock was his brother yes, but he was also a specially honed tool in his arsenal for the good of the Empire; the very best instrument he had at his disposal.

Hesitantly, Mycroft stepped forward. When Sherlock didn't react, he stepped forward again and reached over to push an errant curl off Sherlock's forehead, as though he was a small boy.

The detective frowned uncertainly at the gesture and backed away; unconsciously moving to stand closer to John.

'Well a few minutes wouldn't hurt,' the older man remarked briskly, half afraid that Sherlock was about to change his mind and entirely surprised to realise that this possibility bothered him. 'If you want to spend time together we can do that, but perhaps somewhere quieter next time. Might I inquire who is playing?'

Sherlock grinned hopefully at his brother's change of heart but his smile slipped, when John suddenly stepped in between the two of them.

'I disagree,' he hissed, 'I think even a few minutes would hurt; a lot actually.'

The two men looked down at the shorter man in astonishment.

'I think you better get back to where ever you came from,' he added rudely.

'JOHN!' Sherlock yelled out in a strangled voice,''what are you doing?'

The doctor held up a gentle hand to quiet him.

'You know I am right,' John muttered to Mycroft, 'but I will make you this offer. When his mind returns, I will remind him of this night and he will decide then if he wants to come to you.'

Mycroft glared knowing full well that would hardly ever occur.

'He's a wanker I know that, but he's my brother,' Sherlock whined, 'I want him to come watch the game with us.'

'No you don't, you just think you do,' John countered softly, 'Go inside to Greg now. Trust me, Sherlock. Trust me to take care of you until you are well.'

The brothers' eyes connected over the top of the doctor's blonde head and Mycroft felt fairly ill, when Sherlock turned around and retreated into the sports pub.

'You are overstepping yourself here, Doctor Watson,' Mycroft warned in a chilling voice.

John walked back to the bar careful to keep the man in view, just in case. The way Mycroft was looking at him now reminded him once of a conversation, where Sherlock had admitted that the government agent was the most dangerous man he would ever meet.

'Good grief, the things you've done to your brother in the past,' John snorted in disbelief, 'you don't deserve him and the thing is... you _know_ it!'

'John,' the other man intoned coldly, irritated to be called out on something that he knew to be true, and not understanding why it should irritate him at all, 'that is really none of your business.'

'Look, I don't want to fight but don't make me the bad guy here,' the doctor interjected in a conciliatory manner, 'I hope, rather than actually believe that you can rise above this cat and mouse game the two of you pass of as a normal sibling relationship, but until he recovers himself, I want you to keep your distance. This is not fair to Sherlock to ...take advantage.'

'Don't test me, doctor,' he replied enunciating every syllable with deliberate precision. 'I can take Sherlock so far away from here that you would never see him again.'

'But you know that you will have to walk over my dead body to get to him, right?'

'I could arrange that!' Mycroft snapped.

John grinned defiantly at him as he re-entered the pub. 'Get in line.'


	17. Chapter 17

**Anote:** a reminder that my story is set in the interval between A scandal in B and Baskerville.

Chapter 17

'I do believe that Greg is well on his way to being inebriated,' Sherlock announced somberly.

John glanced at his flat mate out of the corner of his eye. This was first time his friend had addressed him directly, since he had re-entered the bar.

Was this pronouncement the proverbial olive branch?

'Yeah...I think he should have called it quits a few rounds ago, after that last goal.'

They watched in concern as Lestrade stumbled over to join the woozy conga line that was winding its way between the tables and chairs. It was well past closing time now, and the head bartender tried to chase the unruly group away with his dishtowel.

'You would think that England just won the Finals Cup, the way he knocked it back,' Sherlock agreed with a sanctimonious shake of his head.

John pressed his lips together to stop himself from suddenly laughing. 'You do know that both teams are from England, right?'

'Of course I do!' Sherlock snapped so quickly, indicating that he didn't realise that at all.

In the meantime Greg waved at them merrily, trying to get the duo to move their lazy bums and come dance. John and Sherlock waved back companionably.

'He had something on his mind from before,' John confided in a low tone, 'He's not usually so careless with his drinks.'

'Well, we are here,' Sherlock countered in a whisper, 'so perhaps he believed he could afford to be careless, do you think?'

 _Perhaps._

John glanced at him again, wondering exactly what was this mistake Lestrade had supposedly did that made him wish Sherlock would forget all about. 'Should we take him home with us?'

Sherlock's swift agreement in this case, seemed to indicate either he didn't remember himself, or there was no lingering resentment for past mistakes. John had a feeling it was a bit of both.

'So...are _we_ good?' John added in a soft voice, 'Are you mad at me about, Mycroft?'

Sherlock stiffened noticeably at his side, causing John to frown.

The doctor looked down contemplatively at his hands. 'I am sorry that I upset you. You and your brother spar all the time and I don't normally interfere... '

'...and neither do I welcome it, I think.'

No, he didn't. John would shout himself hoarse and run after him to tell him to behave or be careful, for all the good it would do. The man rarely listened to his words of advice or caution.

John looked up stubbornly with a mutinous expression, only to be derailed that Sherlock was smiling so warmly down at him.

'Why are you smiling?'

'Why shouldn't I?' Sherlock added in an arch manner, his smile widening even further at John's discomfiture. It was so typically English for them to skirt around strong feelings. No, he didn't appreciate John interfering in his family affairs but he knew enough of John's character now to understand that he would _always_ interfere, if he thought Sherlock could be hurt by anything. The man truly took his best friend duties seriously, and Sherlock found the trait deeply endearing.

 _John probably could have his pick of any friend he wanted_.

A warm spot of pride glowed in Sherlock's heart to be the favored one, and his chest puffed out accordingly as a result.

'Well, stop smiling!' John groused in an irritable manner, turning his head away. 'It's annoying, and it makes your face look wonky. It's not _you_ at all.'

For some reason, Sherlock found this rude response even more endearing, and it was with difficulty he restrained himself from throwing his arm across the other man's shoulders.

Greg and company regained their attention by launching into an ear splitting rendition of "Ole Ole" .

'No, Greg!' John shouted when he realized that the conga line was making its way out of the door and into the street, 'Come on, Sherlock, let's extract him. It would embarrass him to death if he got pulled in with this motley crowd for disorderly conduct.'

Sherlock turned to scoop up their jackets again, tutting in annoyance when John's phone accidentally fell off the counter and clattered to the ground. Carefully he checked for damage and was relieved to note that all the lights still worked, when he pressed the tiny buttons.

'Sherlock, keep up!' John yelled, 'Stay where I can see you!'

Startled by the shout he looked up in astonishment, only to see his friends pulled into the crowd and sucked out the entrance without him. By the time he barreled out the door, the two were lost in all the other fans who were also celebrating in the nearby pubs.

 _Oh buckets!_

Instinctively Sherlock plastered himself alongside the wall of their pub, trying not to get swept up in the moving crush of people only a few centimeters away. He wouldn't say he was panicking just yet, but he was exceedingly dismayed to be separated from his mates.

Logically he knew it was better to stay in one place and wait for his friends to find him, but at this exact moment, he could understand why people lost in the forests never stayed put, as they were supposed to do. Any action _had_ to be better than the growing feeling of helplessness that was building in his chest.

In the end, he had to force his feet to move in the direction of the pub entrance.

He still had his mobile and if John could only find a pay phone, he could call. For the time being, Sherlock searched their collective pockets and was relieved to find some spare change. Although he fully expected John to retrace his footsteps and collect him, he could also catch a cab back to 221B, if needs be.

'Sherlock?!' a scandalized voice came from his left. The detective clutched their coats like a protective talisman infront his chest, as he blinked down at the unfamiliar stranger by his side.

'Hello?'

A young man in a smart grey suit and matching coat, looked him up and down in utter amazement, 'were you robbed?!'

Now Sherlock had seen photos of himself, and he knew he cut a dashing and intimidating figure in his tailored, designer clothes. The disdainful way this new face was staring at him, made him sincerely regret that he was wearing an over sized football jersey and jeans with untidy hair.

'No, I haven't been robbed!,' Sherlock snapped in an unfriendly manner feeling his temper fray, 'having a bit of a night out, aren't I?!'

The man pulled him a little away into an alley so they didn't have to shout each sentence. 'Let me call Watson. Why are you out here alone?'

'Thank you, but that is not necessary,' Sherlock replied trying for a calmer tone. The man was only attempting to be helpful and there was no need to take out his agitation on him.

However the stranger frowned, still apparently not pleased by the situation. 'Let me walk you to Baker street then. Bart's is closer though, perhaps Molly is still there.'

'I want to wait here a bit and see if John comes back,' Sherlock countered, 'he must be worried now.'

A strange hard expression of annoyance flitted unexpectedly over the man's features, 'I can't believe this! I thought this was a joke but it's not. You don't know me at all! I can't believe you've injured yourself and lost your memory. Of all the foolish things you could have done! How could you be so careless?!'

Sherlock's mouth hung open slightly during the man's tirade, confused by why anyone should be so angry that he was injured. It was an accident after all, albeit one that could have been prevented if he had been more cautious. The reaction of his companion had stunned him into silence though, so used he was to all the warm support from everyone else.

'Don't have anything to say?' the man added snidely, 'God! Could this night possibly get any worse?'

'Perhaps you should remind me of _your_ name?!' Sherlock barked out in exasperation. 'That should make you cheerful again!'

'James,' the young man bit out with an exaggerated roll of his eyeballs.

Sherlock held out his hand politely but dropped it eventually when it was not taken.

'Did you go to the doctor, at all?' James wanted to know next.

'Of course I did,' the recovering detective replied, 'I was in the hospital. Why didn't you come see me if you were so bloody concerned?!'

James pressed his lip together in annoyance at this rebuke, 'I better keep you company until Watson comes. London is dangerous.'

The two men returned to the front of the pub, and silently stood side by side looking out at the noisy crowd. As the seconds ticked by though, Sherlock's skin prickled uncomfortably but he forced himself not to fidget. After a while he couldn't help himself, and he whirled on his companion with a fierce scowl.

'What the hell are you staring at?!' he bawled out, 'What is your problem?!'

'You have to get better!' the other man wailed in response, making no attempt to deny that he had been staring at the side of Sherlock's face in a horrified way. 'You just have too!'

Annoyed anew by this frustrating acquaintance, Sherlock waved his thin hands in the air, 'I'm working on it!'

'No need to shout,' the small man added petulantly.

Sherlock was breathing hard now, wishing for John to come back. He would know what to do. The detective didn't have the patience to deal with trying people like this.

'How do we know each other?' Sherlock asked, trying desperately to rein in the conversation, 'John's never mentioned you.'

He didn't miss the way James grimaced at the mentioned of John's name. It was the second time he had done so.

'I know you from work.'

'You are a policeman, then?'

'God no,' the man replied with a disdainful snort, 'I am more of you can say...criminal mastermind.'

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, completely astonished. That wasn't something you heard everyday, was it?'

'Really?'

'Yes, really.'

Sherlock supposed that a normal person would be running away as fast as they could but the fact that he wasn't, was just another indication that he didn't fall in the category of "normal". After all, one didn't _normally_ stand on street corners and converse with criminals as though they were the lunch lady from the cafeteria, did they?

'Have I ever caused you to be incarcerated?' Sherlock asked eagerly, eyes widening with curiosity.

James snorted, 'Oh, you and Watson are working on it.'

One of the jubilant fans in the crowd fell against them, and together they automatically pitched the man back into the fray.

'All things considered,' Sherlock said, choosing his next words carefully, 'don't you find talking like this is a shade creepy?'

'I get that a lot,' the man beside him deadpanned.

Sherlock stared back at the crowd unseeingly, not sure what to say now.

'Okay, here comes your cavalry,' James announced. Sherlock frowned as a few homeless street urchins approached their corner.

'John?' Sherlock asked rhetorically, looking about him disappointingly when the man didn't materialize.

'Christ, why don't the two of you get married, already?!' the other man ranted out so viciously that it was almost like a hard slap across Sherlock's face.

It was plain as day that James was incredibly jealous of John's position in his life, but Sherlock couldn't do anything about that. It's not like you could have several best friends, and James was the very last person he would pick. They were on opposite sides of the law, for crying out loud!

For the first time in the conversation though, Sherlock began to feel afraid, but not for himself.

'I better get going. Watson doesn't like me talking to you,' the young man said so conversationally, it was almost like his earlier outburst never happened.

'I don't think I care for it myself,' Sherlock added frostily to the man's receding back, 'You leave us alone! Don't come around here anymore.'

'Oh, I don't think I can do that,' James retorted over his shoulder, 'I will see you and your little pet, soon. I promise.'

And as unexpectedly as he had appeared, the man was swallowed by the crowds.

Sherlock slumped heavily on the side of the wall. It didn't take a genius to realise that his sinister "admirer" had been patiently waiting in the shadows for him to be separated from John.

'Sir, are you alright?' asked one of the grimy urchins, 'We have found John and we are bringing him back to you.'

Sherlock tried not to be rude about it but he had to breathe sometime. He covered his nose and mouth with one hand to block out the smell of unwashed bodies.

'You work for my brother?' he asked incredulously,'you will never get me to believe that in a month of Sundays.'

'Of course not, sir,' a little blonde girl who couldn't be more than 16 piped up, 'we are yours.'

He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that he had his own team of 'bodyguards' when John burst out of the crowd. It took a minute after that for the Baker street network to bring the good doctor up to speed, and by the time they were finished, John was holding on to a post as though he wanted to pass out.

This time Sherlock didn't fight his instinct to fold his friend tightly into his arms.

John was shaking.


	18. Chapter 18

**Anote** : Inspired by _lyricalsinger's_ current sick fic

Chapter 18-

They had been inseparable since the incident. To be out of sight of each other for only a few moments, felt like something sharp slicing against John's chest. He suspected that Sherlock felt about the same, as the recovering detective took to relentlessly tracking his movements around the room with his eyes.

Moriarty.

How could one man turn their lives upside down like this?

Fortunately though, they had a slightly tipsy D.I to fuss with, and it was a most welcome distraction to the residents of Baker Street.

Between the two of them, they managed to get the older man up the stairs and into a quick shower. Settling the man in one of Sherlock's faded sweats, Lestrade was well on his way to dreamland in Sherlock's comfortable bed when he suddenly woke up, and grabbed hold of said owner's front with a ferocious strength that surprised the flat mates.

'He's a bad person,' the man whispered, 'bad. Do you hear me?'

Sherlock exchanged a tense glance with John. In his mind's eye he could remember the look of utter revulsion on James' face, every time John's name was mentioned. He had no doubt that the man would push John infront of a moving train, if the opportunity presented itself.

'I know,' he murmured reassuringly.

'Don't leave the flat!' the Inspector warned him almost desperately, before his eyes rolled up and he was snoring. Sherlock stared at the man impassively for a long moment, before covering him carefully with a blanket.

Working in tandem the two flat mates then perched an emergency plastic bucket at the man's side just in case, and closed all the bedroom curtains as tightly as they could. Quietly they retreated back into the sitting room, leaving the door open so they could come quickly if the man did take sick in the middle of the night.

In the meantime, John had his hands on his hips staring at the floor, seemingly oblivious to his flat mate hovering around uncertainly.

'Do you want to talk about it?' Sherlock asked automatically.

The doctor looked at him and his eyes, normally so warm and full of affection when directed towards him, were bleak and cold.

 _I will take that as a no._

A sudden shriek of outrage grabbed their attention, and they hurried to their sitting room window to investigate.

'Would you put that light out?!' Mrs Hudson bellowed to the officers in the street, 'It's shining right into my bedroom! I am old lady, damn it! I have rights!'

A crash echoed down the street as the beleaguered lady pitched one of prized bins into the road, to emphasise her point.

Lights were reluctantly shut off and silence duly reigned.

The sudden re-appearance of Moriarty had made New Scotland Yard come alive, and all the related ABC agencies had quickly jumped in the fray to capture their slice of the pie. Those who were not camped out in front Baker Street, had seized a number of the football fans who had been outside the pub, to question them. However, while a third of of those questioned, did remember seeing Sherlock and another man leaning against the pub, more than ninety percent of them were prepared to swear on a stack of bibles, that the man in question was the footballer, Lionel Messi.

Indeed, Mycroft had to intervene to spring Sherlock from a lengthy round of overnight interrogation.

However, now that John had gotten over his initial horror at what had happen, he was in total agreement with Mycroft's point of view. If there was one criminal that they didn't have to worry was coming for Sherlock, it was Moriarty. In Sherlock's current state of amnesia, it would be like a big game hunter visiting a zoo for his next kill. Still, in the past, their criminal nemesis had proven to be "so changeable" and it was best not to let their guard down.

A few of Mycroft's men saw the duo peeking through the curtains and they waved in greeting.

John raised one hand to thank them for their service, but as he stepped back he crashed right into Sherlock, who was standing directly behind him, observing the street over the top of his head. For a moment they danced around on the spot, trying not fall over.

'Eeeyow! Gods, you are heavier than you look!'

'Steady on Sherlock, back off a bit. Why are you standing over me?'

It took a few seconds to get all their limbs untangled.

'Are you ready to shower?' John then unexpectedly wanted to know, looking up at him.

Again?

He had bathed twice already for the day.

Sherlock sniffed himself cautiously. 'I think I am good.'

'It will help you relax,' the other man pressed, 'here, let me help you.'

The doctor would have yanked his jersey right over his head, if he hadn't reached out and grabbed his wrist. There was something wild in John's eyes at his refusal to disrobe.

'He didn't hurt me, John,' Sherlock reassured him in sudden understanding. 'I swear to you that I am not hiding any injuries.'

'But...'

'He didn't hurt me,' Sherlock insisted again, starting to feel anxious himself as here was more evidence that James was a dangerous foe. What had Moriarty done to him in the past to make his normally steady flatmate such a wreck? 'We just talked.'

'Yeah?' John croaked out before he cleared his throat noisily. 'Did he ask you for anything?'

'He requested that I get better soon,' Sherlock deadpanned.

A small bubble of nervous laughter escaped John's lips before he could quiet it. With a little sigh, he took a few deep breaths to pull himself together as Sherlock rested both his hands on his shoulders in a most comforting gesture.

John gave him a sad smile.

This version of Sherlock was much more "touchy-feely" than his usual persona, encouraging the sharing of confidences and secrets.

'Jim enjoyed baiting you,' he confessed softly in a whisper, as if what he was saying was a terrible sinful secret. 'He liked leaving deadly puzzles for you to figure out, and he _forced_ you to solve them. People were dying. He did bring out the best of you here...

John gently touched the other man's forehead with one finger.

'...but the worst in here.'

The doctor tapped his chest.

He felt Sherlock's hands spasm against his shoulders in concern.

'There was a moment when I thought...'

John's mind flashed back to their horrible argument in the sitting room, before he had stormed off to Sarah's. He had never felt so far away from Sherlock as he did that night. It was as though he was losing his best mate to Moriarty's sickening charisma, and all he could do was stand there and watch as Sherlock inched closer and closer to becoming the psychopath that everyone always accused him of being.

'I should shower,' the doctor muttered under his breath, and he made a unmistakable gesture with his hands indicating that the other man should follow, before realising what an odd request that was to put to one's male flatmate. John looked up with a stubborn expression, willingly Sherlock to understand that just this once, he would welcome his presence in the bath. 'Would you read to me?'

Sherlock strode passed him, entered the bathroom and sat on the closed lid of the toilet, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He was pleased when John straightened noticeably, as though the heavy burden he was carrying on his back was lightened considerably by his easy obedience. Happily, the detective then whipped out his mobile and activated his browser to first find something good to read, and secondly to give John some privacy. But its not like the good doctor needed it as he leisurely stripped with all the nudity shyness of a man, who had lived in barracks for months at a time.

With a twitch of the curtains and twist of the shower handle, John stepped into a most welcome hot bath.

Without even fully thinking about though, Sherlock's fingers of their own accord re-checked John's blog for the fifth time, ever since he had found out about its existence. And like the other four times he had checked, the blog was temporarily suspended.

One or two hours may have been explainable, but not an entire day now! Considering what had happened tonight, he felt it was even more imperative for him to recover his memory, as soon as possible.

'I am not hearing any reading,' the ex- army captain complained. 'What are you doing out there?'

'John, did you put a block on your blog?'

Silence came from behind the curtain, and Sherlock tilted his head wondering if his partner was about to lie to him.

'Yeah, I did,' John admitted, 'don't be angry. Some of it is a bit gory. Molly told me you had some trouble in autopsy.'

The detective gave their rubber ducky printed shower curtain a hard stare, 'I am not made of glass, John! If it gets to be too much, I can switch it off!'

Sherlock shook his head. No wonder people thought they were a couple. Was he this overbearingly protective when he was in his right mind?

'One more night,' Sherlock warned, 'if my memory doesn't return by morning, you are unlocking this website so I can read it!'

'How about we read it together?' was the doctor's gentle compromise.

'Fine!' he snapped out with such characteristic heat that it made John grin.

Sherlock found a tourist website about England and began reading out loud, hoping the colourful descriptions of cliffs and beaches, and driving through the idyllic countrysides would ease the mind of his friend, as well as the hot water was hopefully soothing his muscles.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

John busied himself in drying his hair with vigorous rubs using the edge of his towel; the better to stir up his tired thoughts into some semblance of order.

'Sherlock,' he began as he twitched opened the shower curtain, glancing across at the other man seated patiently on the toilet, 'reading our blog is not guaranteed to kick start your memory. You know that, right?'

The detective pressed his lips together as he gave his flat mate a sour look, not in the mood for another round of tolerating John's over protective mannerisms.

Reading the blog worked or it it didn't.

Anything had to be better than sitting around on their hands, waiting and hoping. At this point, he didn't care how god damned gory the case material was. A good mental jolt to the head, might actually be the thing that was needed. In any case, he wanted his memory back, and he wanted it back yesterday!

The doctor's eyebrows suddenly snapped together in a fierce scowl, completing misinterpreting his flatmate's intent, 'Hang on, just what are you thinking? If you see Moriarty again, you are to let me know. You are _not_ to go haring off by yourself!'

Sherlock skewed him with a look of incredulously surprise.

W _ho the devil do you think you are addressing in that condescending tone of voice?!_

'No, don't be like that,' John tacked on hastily as the other man shot to his feet, 'I am sorry, Sherlock.'

The detective stalked out of the bathroom in high dudgeon; two angry splotches of bright red on his cheeks. John hurriedly tied a towel across his hips to follow.

'Sherlock, please!'

His friend whirled around and placed a hand on his damp shoulder to quiet him. With the amount of "security" currently circling their flat, you didn't know who could be listened.

They strained their ears to hear but thankful no heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, demanding to know if there was anything the matter.

'John, it's fine. I know you are worried but I truly have no intention of haring off after anyone; not without you, ' Sherlock announced wearily as he massaged the bridge of his nose, 'Why is there no dinner? Is it my turn to cook? Where's the shopping from earlier?'

The doctor sighed softly in relief, knowing that he had stepped across the line by chastising the other man as though he was a toddler. But how could he explain how terrified he had been, when Moriarty had emerged in an almost flippant-like defiance of his worldwide manhunt, just to check on the detective's health?

Sherlock had his fingertips on the door handle of the fridge though, before John realised what he was about to do.

'DON'T GO IN THERE!' he roared out, a bit louder than he should have and naturally, Sherlock jumped back as if he had been electrocuted.

The man had one hand pressed against his heart, and the other clutching the back of a chair, breathing hard. 'What the hell?!'

'Sorry, sorry ,' John apologised quickly, struggling to keep serious even as the evil laughter kept bubbling out instead. The way Sherlock had jumped up in the air with all his long limbs flailing this way and that, was the funniest thing he had seen in days.

Goodness, he really needed to stop laughing now or risk making the man angry all over again.

Two muffled thumps suddenly came from the floor below, causing Sherlock to suck in another painful breath of concern. 'Good god, what now?! John, what is that?

'It's Mrs Hudson with her broomstick,' the doctor explained calmly,'she is warning us that we are too loud.'

Eventually, Sherlock placed his two hands on his hips and regarded him in an aggravated manner. 'Why can't I go into the fridge? I'm hungry.'

John sighed quietly to himself. Why was there never a good power outage when you really needed it? He hadn't looked in the fridge in a while, not since he observed the human hand in a jar in the crisper. Only the good Lord knew what else was in there.

'We're slobs,' John lied inventively, 'so the inside of the fridge is a fright. Besides, there is no food in there. Check the grocery bag on the chair. I think there are still donuts'

The detective narrowed his eyes as he crossed his arms across his chest.

'John, this is absurd,' he noted in a querulous voice, 'you cannot protect me from everything! You are slowly driving me around the twist! I thought for sure there was a bomb in the fridge or the like, they way you shouted.'

 _Close enough._

'You know what, John,' Sherlock blurted out with a sudden look of inspiration, 'I am going to open this fridge, and you are going to stand there and let me.'

'I am?'

'Yes you are. It will be good for you.'

 _Not bloody likely, especially if you vomit._

'Yes, it will,' Sherlock crowed confidently, 'It will be like a baby step in letting me face something unpleasant, and realising that I am _not_ going to fall apart.'

'I don't think that,' John stammered out in surprise.

Sherlock rewarded him with a withering look of exasperation.

'On three!' he then announced excitedly.

'Sherl, I would rather...

'...oh how bad could it be?!'

His recovering flat mate yanked opened the door as if he was tearing off a bandage.

John stood there rooted to the spot, torn between laughter and horror. He was at the wrong angle entirely though, as the door blocked his view. All he could really see was the yellowish hue on his flat mate's face, which he hoped was from the light inside the fridge compartment, and not because Sherlock was about to be sick.

'See, I told you it was a mess!' John remarked, as Sherlock continued to stare. 'You never listen.'

In response, the detective reached in and removed a large platter, heaped with freshly made sandwiches, covered in cling wrap.

'Wait? That was in there?!' John cried in amazement, as he ducked around a chair and pulled open the door of the fridge to look for himself. The fridge, ladies and gentlemen, was not only completely empty save for two bottles of Heineken, it's freshly scrubbed surfaces gleamed cheerfully up at one and all.

'Clearly, you have a different opinion as to what constitutes a clean kitchen appliance,' Sherlock snorted sarcastically, as he removed the cling wrap and happily helped himself to a delicious roast beef sandwich.

Absently the doctor reached over and crammed a sandwich into his mouth too.

'I don't believe this,' John kept mumbling over and over to himself as he continued to stare, so entranced that he didn't seem to be affected by the cold air hitting his bare chest.

'There's a note on that beer bottle,' Sherlock pointed, and the other man quickly snagged it with his fingers. Sherlock looked over John's shoulder, frowning at the single "M" on the yellow post it .

He glared at the platter suspiciously, 'Moriarty made me sandwiches?!'

'Not Moriarty,' John replied, as he hurried to his armchair to collect his mobile, 'Molly.'

Oh.

Sherlock took the opportunity to smile as John had his back turned. Here was evidence that she had perhaps gotten over their rough patch from earlier. Life was suddenly grand again, and he childishly bounced around on his toes while he inhaled another sandwich.

'Hey, it's me,' John said by way of greeting when Molly answered her phone. The doctor ducked his head back into the fridge as if he thought the situation had changed since last he looked, 'yeah, we got the sandwiches, thanks.'

John glanced over his shoulder at him, 'the beer and clean fridge is from Molly, and the food from Mrs. H.'

'Thank you, Molly,' Sherlock said loudly, hoping she would hear his voice and know that he too had put the incident to one side, and wanted to visit with her again as soon as she gave the word.

A warmth spread across his chest as Sherlock pictured his loyal friend infront his refrigerator cleaning, doing whatever she could to ensure his comfort, in mind and in body. They must truly be dear friends for her to come here, roll up sleeves and scrub their fridge. And she brought beer too! How very thoughtful of her.

 _I should get her some flowers to say sorry again and thank you._

John started giggling at something, and turned away to peer into the fridge again. Methodically he checked the compartments, 'what did you do with the hand?'

'The what?!' Sherlock barked out.

John raised a finger to shush him, even as he continued to laugh at whatever the pathologist was saying. Sherlock normally found John's laugh to be pleasing to his ear, but all of a sudden it was seriously starting to get on his nerves. For someone who proclaimed earlier that he "didn't know Molly very well", they sure were acting like old chums.

'Text me later, okay?' John insisted, 'it doesn't matter if you wake me up.'

Sherlock scowled in confusion. What was John doing? How _dare_ he make such an intimate request of the lady? Text me later? It was already close to one in the morning! And in any case, what did John have to discuss with Molly? She was _his_ friend, not John's!

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, when he realised that he was being nibbled by jealously. Sherlock crammed another sandwich in his mouth and chewed with renewed determination. The fact that it tasted a bit like sawdust, was ignored.

As far as he was concerned, if he couldn't trust John, he couldn't trust anyone!


	20. Chapter 20

Anote: Apologies for being so sporadic with posting chapters. My work-life balanced is not balanced at all!

 **Chapter 20**

The flat slept, and Sherlock roamed the quiet rooms with a deep sense of satisfaction to be the one on guard. This way and that he flitted, silent as a tall ghost wrapped up as he was from head to toe, in a warm comfy sheet.

True there was a pack of security agencies crowding the sidewalks, but here in their rooms, he reigned over their peaceful domestic situation. Indeed, it was a pleasure to feel useful and needed, and not the one who had to be vigilantly babysat as though he would totter off and get lost, if not watched constantly.

He smiled smugly to himself as he caught sight of John's sleeping face.

The doctor had made a terrible mistake earlier, when he decided to keep him company by sleeping on some cushions on the sitting room floor. An hour later he had woken with such an awful crick in his neck, that Sherlock had to lift him bodily and lay him flat on the sofa. In a small way that incident had made Sherlock feel better. Other people who supposedly had it more together than he did, were in fact, prone to conclusively bungle matters too!

Since then, as he had been doing every half and hour, Sherlock circled the rooms; peeking in first at Greg who was vibrating the windows with his loud snores and then across to John, who was now comfortably curled up on the sofa. Absently, he reached down to smooth the covers over one shoulder that had become exposed to the chilly night.

All were deep in sleep, and no slight noise would rouse them now. It was time to do some exploring without any worried mother hens, anxiously clucking about him.

With one cautious eye on his flat mate and one on Lestrade, he gently eased John's weapon from where it had been left under one of the pillows on the ground. The doctor had lost track of it as he had been distracted by the agonising pain in his neck, as well as the way the detective had picked him up in one smooth motion, as though he weighed nothing at all. Quickly realising what was the matter, Sherlock had sought to unlock the muscles before they truly cramped up, ignoring John's strenuous and some what obscene protests that he didn't need a massage.

Once again, Sherlock brought his elbow up to his face to examine it.

 _What was John complaining about? It wasn't that pointy?! It was a perfectly useful instrument to deliver a precision massage._

Sherlock dropped his elbow and then gingerly held the gun by the handle, using only his thumb and index finger. Quickly but carefully he walked into their small kitchen and held it up and away to the light, to ensure the safety was on.

He wasn't a complete moron, thank you very much!

Gently, he then laid the piece on the table as he anxiously glanced about him, subconsciously afraid that he would be caught in the act of doing something he shouldn't, even though he was doing nothing wrong at all. Everyone was still sleeping however, and he turned back to examine the weapon. Tentatively he touched the barrel, but drew back sharply as though he had touched a steaming hot surface. Clearly, he wasn't as comfortable with guns as John was. He wondered how long his flat mate had it on his person. Sherlock had only noticed it when the other man stripped to shower.

Screwing up his courage, he steadied his nerve and picked it up in a steady motion. He was a private detective, surely he had cause to defend his life and limb in dangerous situations.

His palms tingled as they clenched around the rough grip, and he noted how his index finger rested professionally against the length of the barrel.

 _Muscle memory, perhaps?_

Excitedly he pointed the gun at his reflection in the mirror above the fire place, hoping for a mental breakthrough.

Would't it be fun to get his memories back and spring it on John in the morning, oh so casual like over toast and marmalade? He could just imagine the shocked "O" of surprise on the doctor's expressive countenance.

Grinning mischievously, Sherlock's eyes connected with his those of his reflection, and he stood there waiting.

Memory unfortunately didn't return but something else did, and the smile slid off his face. Fear, complete and undiluted slammed into him, making him tremble as goosebumps raised across his arms and across his body. He had been here before; alone, fighting for his life against a faceless foe.

Dear God above, he had been here before!

 _Had he shot to kill?_

His hand was shaking so hard at the thought, he had to lower his arm.

He glanced across to stare at the peaceful curve of John's face. Perhaps the good doctor was right to try and shield him from the past. Without proper context, these little bits and pieces were rattling him to his very core.

Sherlock covered his face with one hand, fighting for composure; trying to turn the tide of his thoughts in another direction. If threatened in this current pitiable state of affairs, could he really defend himself? Could he point a gun at someone and shoot? Suppose it was John or Molly that was in trouble?!

 _Yes, surely he could!_

Again he hefted the weapon, but this time he pointed it straight into the air. He could do a warning shot first. That should be enough to get an attacker's attention, and if that didn't suffice, a shot to the foot or a shoulder shouldn't be so difficult.

Working out a plan of action had calmed him down considerably, and he saluted his reflection in the mirror. He might not be all together himself, but he felt a bit more ready for Moriarty or whichever idiot had taken an abrupt dislike to his detecting.

 _Wait? Do I have a gun of my own?_

He turned around automatically to ask his flatmate, forgetting for a moment that he was asleep. However, another random thought suddenly crossed his mind that there was also a high ranking member of the New Scotland Yard, sleeping in the next room. With his heart pounding hard in his throat, Sherlock began to dart madly around the flat, looking for a suitable hiding place for John's gun. He didn't know why, but he felt strongly that his partner didn't have a permit for his weapon.

Best to err on the side of caution.

He could just imagine Mycroft's exasperated expression if John was arrested. Worse yet, Mycroft wouldn't let him stay at Baker Street alone without supervision!

Truly panicked now he turned around comically on one spot, before diving headlong towards the sofa. As softly as he could manage, he slipped one hand under John's pillow and raised his head. Quickly, he tucked the gun beneath and lowered his friend back into place.

Perfect.

John settled with a contended snuffle and Sherlock gave him a lopsided look of fond amusement. The older man looked considerably younger when he slept. He didn't look like the type at all to be carrying a concealed weapon without a permit. Sherlock froze though when John's eyes suddenly popped open. They stared at each for a long moment before the man's eyes rolled up in his head and he was asleep once more.

Sherlock slowly let out the breath he was holding, laughing softly to himself. How would he explain to John why he was on his knees, leaning over him while he slept? It made him feel terribly pleased though, that the other man had felt so safe in his presence to drop back to sleep immediately. He had not flinched at all to find his flatmate looming over him, like a spectre.

Still smiling Sherlock made to climb to his feet, but not before John's mobile chirped loudly in the quiet room. Without even thinking, he launched himself over the furniture, trying to reach the confounded device before a second notification hit. (He was certainly getting a lot of exercise at this unusual hour of the morning.)

Sherlock hadn't meant to read the message but there was no password. John had unlocked his device after their little adventure in the pub, when he and Sherlock had been separated. This way, Sherlock could answer his phone in an emergency, but now he wasn't sure that he wanted to be using John's phone at all.

The detective was highly displeased all over again to know that Molly was texting John at this time of night, and various uncharitable thoughts noisily marched through his mind, as he tried to figure out how he felt about this. It was an innocent enough message letting John know she had arrived safely to her home. But that was no comfort at all when Sherlock's own mobile in the pocket of his robe, remained convincingly silent.

But what exactly had he found here?

A secret, nestled in the palm of his hand?

It made him pause and wonder what other secrets were out there. His life was so fantastical in some respects, it was almost _not_ entirely believable.

The detective slid down to the floor in front the sofa, and crossed his legs under him.

'What else?' he mumbled to himself, as his thumb gently caressed the phone casing, hovering right over the icon that would take him deep into John's messages and emails.


End file.
